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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29831277">A Shot in the Dark</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WiseOwl18/pseuds/WiseOwl18'>WiseOwl18</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, Graphic Description, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Slow Burn, injured grantaire</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 21:08:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>24,915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29831277</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WiseOwl18/pseuds/WiseOwl18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Is he certain they’re coming here?” Courfeyrac asked.</p><p>Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Even if he wasn’t sure, would you want to risk all these people’s lives on a chance?”</p><p>Courfeyrac worked his jaw before inclining his head. “I suppose not.”</p><p>As the crowd below cheered, Courfeyrac stepped beside Enjolras, hand resting on his shoulder as the pair shared a hushed conversation.</p><p>Grantaire watched the exchange before freezing as the applause was interrupted by a gunshot.</p><p> <br/>In which Grantaire is shot while attempting to protect Enjolras during a rally, Enjolras has to confront his feelings regarding the Skeptic as his life hangs in the balance and through his eventual recovery, and Grantaire struggles to help his friends understand himself while hoping to build some kind of positive relationship with the Chief.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Combeferre &amp; Courfeyrac &amp; Enjolras (Les Misérables), Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Skeptical Revolutionary</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Today’s protest-slash-rally-slash-speech outside of General Lamarque’s residence was seemingly just like every other one Les Amis de l’ABC had ever planned. It was easy enough, what with the unrest and general squalor, to attract a large crowd of Parisians, and consequently the mass created something of a gridlock, making it almost impossible for the police or National Guard to respond in any meaningful way.</p><p>At least, that’s what usually happened.</p><p>But thunder softly rolled overhead as Grantaire stepped out of his building, making a sour face at the raindrops splashing onto the cobbled pavement. For a moment, he teetered in the doorway, seriously debating going back up to his flat-turned-studio, drinking some wine and painting contentedly to the sounds of the storm. Enjolras, after all, was giving a speech Grantaire was sure he’d heard a few-dozen times.</p><p>And yet, this was Enjolras, who could probably babble incoherently and keep Grantaire transfixed. But especially when he gave his speeches, whether in the streets or at the Mussain, Enolras’ passion filled every empty space in a room. His blue eyes turned fiery and his presence lit up wherever it was that he happened to grace with his presence. There was a reason Grantaire called him Apollo, though <em> never </em> out loud or to his face.</p><p>“You just gonna stand there all day?” a gravelly voice behind him slurred.</p><p>Grantaire looked back before shaking his head and shoving his hat over his unkempt curls. “Are you gonna stare all day?” he retorted before stepping aside so his neighbor could go past.</p><p>While R may have been an alcoholic and a sorry excuse for a revolutionary, this particular neighbor had him beat in the crappy human-being department. If he hadn’t just downed several bottles of wine, he was high as a kite on whatever drug he could get his hands on. There were several nights when Grantaire had come home to find the man wandering around Grantaire’s flat, thinking it was his own and far from lucid. </p><p>Then there was the night that Grantaire had heard crying and screaming next door, only to find that said neighbor had beaten his poor wife and was ready to smash a wine bottle over her head. What had followed was a brief struggle before Grantaire had managed to knock the man out cold. And though bloodied and bruised, he helped the man’s wife, who had been pregnant, out of the derelict flat and let her stay in his for a night before sending her along with a decent enough painting that she could sell and hopefully get back to her parents or some other safe place.</p><p>If the neighbor knew that Grantaire was the one who had knocked him out and helped his wife to disappear, Grantaire wasn’t sure. But the man had never said a word to him about it, nor did he seem keen to find his wife and unborn child again.</p><p>Grantaire sighed, pulling his focus back to the present moment. His annoying, abusive, stoner neighbor had a point; if Grantaire wavered in the threshold any longer, he would be late for the rally. And while it would entirely fit his style and persona, he didn’t particularly fancy having to fight through the crowd to get near Enjolras.</p><p>Mind made-up, Grantaire stepped out into the rain and started towards a nicer side of town, taking every back alley, side street, and shortcut possible to avoid the carriages that carelessly sprayed up the dingy water that gathered in deep puddles on the main roads.</p><p>As he rounded a corner, he noticed that the crowd in the square was far less than it usually was.</p><p>Most of the streets had been devoid of pedestrians, and now the square was not tightly packed like it would have normally been with the mass spilling into the surrounding areas and stopping up traffic.</p><p>But never-the-less, Enjolras stood on the platform above them, his presence making the dreary Paris afternoon shine like day. Despite the fact that he was probably soaked to the bone, just like everyone else, he looked calm and collected, the fiery passion burning brightly behind his eyes and Grantaire could easily see it clear across the square.</p><p>Courfeyrac stood on Enjolras’ right side, Bahorel to his left, while the other Amis handed pamphlets out to the gathered people.</p><p>Grantaire filed in on the back side of the stage, not even trying to take one of the remaining piles of leaflets. The others had probably handed out most of them anyways, and they generally didn’t care for him speaking with people who weren’t already devoted to the cause. Heaven-forbid he <em> corrupted </em>them to his skeptical ways.</p><p>Soon after he stuffed his hands into his pockets, the crowd began to quiet in preparation for Enjolras’ speech.</p><p>But right about then, Grantaire heard a loud squelch in the alley behind him, and a moment later something tugging on his coat as a small, grubby hand tried to reach around his own and into his pocket. He glanced down to find Gavroche attempting to rifle through his coat pocket, searching for spare change.</p><p>“Gav,” Grantaire chided, “pick-pocketing doesn’t work when I can feel your hand in my pocket.”</p><p>Gavroche squinted up at him defiantly before continuing as Grantaire pulled his hands out of his pockets, crossing his arms in amusement.</p><p>“I don’t have anything in that pocket anyways,” he snorted.</p><p>“Well you coulda led with ‘at!” the boy retorted, glaring up at him.</p><p>Grantaire chuckled. “I’ll give you something after the rally, alright?”</p><p>“Do I get ta listen this time ‘round?” Gavroche asked. “I’ll try to avoid jeering.”</p><p>“You’ve heard this speech a thousand times by now. It’s more important that you----”</p><p>“So have you.”</p><p>Grantaire groaned. “Yes, but it’s more important that you go keep a lookout. You’re far better than any of us could ever be.”</p><p>Gavroche considered this. “Will you let me have wine at dinner?”</p><p>“Get going,” Grantaire gently pushed him, rolling his eyes and not dignifying Gavroche’s question with a response. “The speech is about to start and you need to be in position.”</p><p>Gavroche snickered before wandering away.</p><p>As expected, Enjolras’ speech was a rehash of one Grantaire had heard a hundred times over, and yet Enjolras’ voice held him rapt, ringing clearly through the sound of the rain slapping on the pavement.</p><p>But the din of the rain and Enjolras’ speech veiled certain sounds that the boys needed to hear, sounds that they could only imagine but had never had the displeasure of hearing before.</p><p>The speech continued, the gathered people jeering, cheering, and applauding as if on cue. But Grantaire paid them no mind. They were only just learning something Grantaire knew deep within himself; that Enjolras was far more than some student, or an optimistic revolutionary, or even just a man.</p><p>He was a god among mere mortals. Or perhaps some famed hero, though Grantaire hoped against hope that Enjolras would not share in the same tragic fate as the heroes of the ancients that he loved to read about in his books.</p><p>Grantaire was lost in the speech by the time he heard a pair of footsteps running towards him through the rain.</p><p>“Monsieur Grantaire!” Gavroche hissed.</p><p>Grantaire glanced down at him before looking back towards the platform. “You’re supposed to be keeping watch.”</p><p>“I was!” Gavroche retorted indignantly, his loud, shrill response making even Enjolras visibly twitch.</p><p>Courfeyrac turned slightly to face them, giving both a stern glare, before returning to surveying the crowd.</p><p>Gavroche threw back an equally sour glare before pulling Grantaire down to whisper in his ear. “The National Guard is coming!”</p><p>Grantaire paled slightly, squatting to be eye-level with the boy as his mind struggled to process. “How many? And how far out?”</p><p>“I’m not sure. Twenty, at least. And a few on horses too,” Gavroche replied. “They’re probably only a couple minutes away by now, I reckon.”</p><p>Grantaire nodded after a moment before climbing onto the platform as discreetly as he could manage, leaning towards Courfeyrac as he stood beside him. “Gav says the guard is coming,” he whispered.</p><p>“Is he certain they’re coming here?” Courfeyrac asked.</p><p>Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Even if he wasn’t sure, would you want to risk all these people’s lives on a chance?”</p><p>Courfeyrac worked his jaw before inclining his head. “I suppose not.”</p><p>As the crowd below cheered, Courfeyrac stepped beside Enjolras, hand resting on his shoulder as the pair shared a hushed conversation.</p><p>Grantaire watched the exchange before freezing as the applause was interrupted by a gunshot.</p><p>At first everything was silent, people rooted in place with shock as they glanced around until they saw the soldiers, the one in the lead seated atop a white horse splotched with mud-spots, his arm holding aloft his pistol, which was aimed at the sky.</p><p>But only a beat after the silence had fallen, panic had set in and people began fleeing in every direction, shouting and screaming in fear.</p><p>All, that was, except Enjolras, who stood rooted to his spot, brow furrowed in confusion as he stared at the guardsmen, who were now slowly advancing through the scattering crowd and towards the platform.</p><p>“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac hissed, grabbing his wrist. “We need to get out of here! Now!”</p><p>Enjolras stumbled, shaking his head as there was a scream somewhere in the crowd. “No, we’ve gotta help the people.”</p><p>Grantaire pinched his brow before looking to Bahorel. “He’s going to make a martyr of himself.”</p><p>Bahorel nodded in agreement, lips pursed. “You think I could steal one of their horses?”</p><p>“What?” Grantaire snorted, glancing over, but Bahorel was already gone, wading into the crowd and towards one of the horsemen that had gotten separated from his compatriots.</p><p>Grantaire couldn’t help but chuckle at the hilarity that might ensue should Bahorel succeed, but then his gaze caught on the leader of the guardsmen, who had just re-loaded and cocked his pistol, carefully aiming down the sights towards the platform, eyes fixed on…</p><p>“Enjolras!” Grantaire shouted, diving in front of him just as he heard the crack of the gunshot, tackling Enjolras to the ground.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much for reading chapter 1! Updates may be a touch inconsistent, but I get quite a bit of my writing done by-hand while I work at the hospital and don’t always have time/energy to type it up. Next up is Enjolras’ perspective of these events, and then we’ll really get into the angst and slow-burn...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Chief Among Mortals</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Enjolras prepares for the rally and is confronted by the gruesome reality of just what expressing his ideals will bring before those dreams come to fruition.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Who all is to be here today?” Enjolras asked as he stood at the window in his flat, looking down at the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everyone, I think,” Combeferre replied, organizing the leaflets into piles so they could easily be divided among their friends for distribution. “As for people attending, well, it's hard to say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The weather certainly isn’t optimal,” Courfeyrac added.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras nodded in agreement, watching the rain water puddle along the sides of the road below for a moment longer before shaking his head and joining his friends at the table. “I was hoping the morning storms would have cleared by now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It's not thundering nearly as badly anymore,” Courfeyrac offered. “Perhaps by the time we reach General Lamarque’s, it will have let up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But just as the words left his mouth, there was another loud thunder clap that shook the building and all three men jumped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Courfeyrac awkwardly smiled, a chuckle escaping his lips. “Or not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combeferre snorted, rolling his eyes. “Perhaps we should just… not have the rally today. We already have another one scheduled for next week. Just call today a loss. It’s not as if we have anything newly inspiring to share with the people. It’s just the usual.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Enjolras replied almost immediately, his gaze intense as he studied Combeferre. “We aren’t going to be frightened off by less-than-ideal weather. And we’ve no idea who could show up and be swayed to our cause. We won’t make that decision for them just because we want to stay dry and comfortable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Combeferre held his hands up. “It was merely a suggestion, Enj. I know you aren’t happy with what you have written for today and there’s no shame in it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras held his gaze for another moment before sighing and smiling slightly. “I know. And I appreciate your insight and thought on my behalf. Truly, I do. But my gut says that today will be a good day for us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, we’ve no reason to doubt that,” Courfeyrac said with a hint of teasing. “Your gut hasn’t led us astray just yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras rolled his eyes, softly chuckling. “Let’s eat and then we’ll get going.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a quick lunch as the trio ironed out the final details of the rally and later meeting at the Mussain, they pulled on their coats and started towards General Lamarque’s residence, which was only a few blocks away from Enjolras’ flat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The square was mostly empty, people merely passing through on their way about their business with a few people hanging about under the eaves of the surrounding buildings, attempting to avoid the rain as best they could. Set up in front of the imposing home was a wooden platform, just big enough for a few people to stand on it but tall enough that whoever did stand on it could be easily seen in the midst of a crowd.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The stage was usually reserved for the crieur public, who would shout the latest news and happenings at whoever was near enough to listen, but this particular platform had been vacant for at least a year. The rumor was that General Lamarque was fed-up with the particular crieur who had usually taken the particular post and no one else had been brave enough to replace him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Needless to say, it was the perfect place for the Amis, and other like-minded groups, to hold rallies. It was at the foot of the home of their most powerful supporter in the government, and surely he wouldn’t call for police to clear them out when he seemed to listen to their demands. For the Amis in particular, it was near enough to their assorted homes that it wasn’t too difficult for them to get to, but far enough away that should something happen, they wouldn’t be easily found by police if they returned home to hide.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The infrastructure of the pre-built platform was merely an added bonus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Most of the others had already gathered at the platform, in varying states of dress. Most wore coats, buttoning them as high as they could in an attempt to block out the rain. Some wore hats to try and keep their heads from getting wet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bahorel, however, was merely in a pair of pants, a soaked shirt, and a vest, a breathless grin on his face that said that he’d had a successful day at the boxing ring.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nice of you three to join us!” he smiled, waving good-naturedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras snorted, shaking his head. “All good things take time, Bahorel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And all bad things happen far too quickly,” Jollly chimed in, glaring at Bahorel. “Like sickness. So put a coat on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bahorel rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, Jollly. Besides, if I put on my coat I’d need to take it to be laundered afterwards and I don’t have the patience nor money for that at the moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras smiled as he studied each of his friends, all of them taking a stack of papers before dispersing to gather a crowd. Enjolras, however, sat on the back side of the platform and pulled out his notes, rehearsing again and again what he planned to say and how he planned to say it, which pauses fit in between which statements and where people would jeer or applaud. People would see the passion in his words, and the passion was certainly there, but just as Combeferre would dissect bodies to learn the science of health, Enjolras dissected speeches to learn the science of influence, and he was quite proud of his methods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as Enjolras was getting lost in his mind, reviewing each and every words of his speech before he would give it, his gaze swept over the assembling crowd and caught on a head of dark, bouncing curls spilling out of a ratty, rain-soaked hat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grantaire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite his seeming contempt for the revolution, he had become something of a constant fixture at the rallies over the last few months. Enjolras could only hope that exposure to his plans and ideals just might sway the skeptic to see from his point of view. Certainly the endless, round and round debates weren’t convincing the man, and regardless of Enjolras’ almost boundless energy to argue his points, even he had to admit he was getting to his wits’ end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet there was something about Grantaire that… intrigued Enjolras. There were certainly things he despised; the man was a lazy, stubborn, selfish drunk. But he was good at arguing a point and standing his ground, and Enjolras had to begrudgingly respect that. He was also a halfway decent friend to some of the others and was the only one seemingly capable of wrangling that little street-urchin that insisted he was one of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras shook his head and focused back on the present as Courfeyrac tapped him on the shoulder before offering him a hand and pulling him up to stand on top of the platform.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think this is probably all we’re going to get, for the most part,” he murmured. “And if we wait any longer, Jollly will start panicking and thinking he, and the rest of us, has pneumonia. Or the plague.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras snorted. “I think they’re one in the same, to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Courfeyrac inclined his head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, we can’t have that,” Enjolras said to Courfeyrac as he found himself watching Grantaire make his way to the back side of the platform.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bossuet is trying to keep him contained,” Bahorel added, snickering on Enjolras’ other side, elbowing him good-naturedly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras followed his gaze to see Jollly arguing in animated fashion with Bossuet, both hiding under the eaves across the square. “I suppose I should save him,” Enjolras laughed before putting a hand up to silence the crowd, his musings on Grantaire temporarily forgotten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few moments, he began to speak, the words flowing easily out of him. These were truths he held close to his heart, the foundational teachings of his soul. The guiding principles of Rousseau, the Social Contract, and other like-minded men that came before him, now mixed with his own interpretations and ideals, formed his speeches that stirred the people of Paris to action.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was in these moments that he felt the most comfortable, the closest he could ever be to his fully authentic self.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He gave himself to the assembled crowd, and they responded in kind, shouting cheers and curses at appropriate moments, shaking their fists as he shared stories of heart-breaking injustice and applauding at moments of triumph. They hung on his every word, all eyes on him. And with any luck, the fervor that they expressed now would spread throughout Paris, and then throughout all of France. One day, hopefully quite soon, these would be the faces leading France and carrying her into the future.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But even in moments such as these, Enjolras couldn’t completely fune out the world around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was!” Gavroche’s shrill voice cried from behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras couldn’t help but flinch, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sour face. And after a beat of silence he continuing, singing General Lamarque’s praises and showing why France needed more men like him to advocate for people such as them. But more importantly, how France needed the people that stood before him to represent themselves.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the crowd roared in agreement, Courfeyrac stepped closer, resting a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder and leaning in. “Gavroche says the National Guard is coming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Coming where? Here?” Enjolras asked softly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Courfeyrac nodded. “We ought to send the people away. And get out of here ourselves.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras pursed his lips, bringing a hand to his mouth in thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But before he could respond, or even begin to think of a way to send the people away without causing hysteria, there was a loud crack of gunfire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras’ vision seemed to blur, time slowing down as he tried to take in the scene.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>People’s faces began to twist, first in shock and then in panic. What had been an orderly, peaceful gathering now warped, people running every direction to get away from the advancing soldiers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the crowd, Enjolras saw Combeferre’s face, their eyes meeting for a moment before he was swallowed by the crowd, bending down to help someone who had been trampled in the chaos.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The soldiers, calloused and uncaring of their fellow country-men, surged into the crowd, using their muskets to shove people out of their way, breaking noses and cracking open heads indiscriminately.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Distantly, Enjolras could hear his name, his friends shouting and moving around him, but his feet felt cemented to the platform, eyes taking in the horror that was unfolding before him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>This is where his revolution would lead, one day. It would not be easy to overcome these seemingly thoughtless brutes, who would slaughter whomever stood in their way without a second glance. But Enjolras couldn’t let them. He wasn’t merely a man of words, but a man of action; he and his friends had been doing their best to assemble a cache of weapons and munitions, plan strategies for when the violence would inevitably arise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And yet, as Enjolras watched the scene, a scene he knew could get so much worse, all of those actions and ideas were drained out of him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enjolras!” Courfeyrac practically steamed in his ear, hand clamping tightly around Enjolras’ wrist. “We need to get out of here! Now!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras stumbled, the slow-motioned shock suddenly spinning back into real-time once again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As some semblance of rational thought returned, he shook his head, pulling from Courfeyrac’s grip. “No. We’ve gotta help the people.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Courfeyrac sputtered. “We can’t help the people if you’re dead, Enj! Do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> your head to end up in a basket?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re overreacting,” Enjolras retorted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well you’re underreacting!” Courfeyrac shot back before both men heard Grantaire shout Enjolras’ name.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras frowned, glancing in the skeptic’s direction before being flattened beneath him at the sound of gun-fire.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you for your patience! Chapter 3 is mostly written, but it needs typing and polishing. It has been quite fun researching the techniques used in the 1800s for gunshot wounds, and I am happy to post links to some of my resources if anyone is interested. Did you know that gunshot wounds were originally categorized as being "poisonous?"</p><p>Anyways, lemme know of any thoughts or feelings! I'll have chapter 3 hopefully posted before the end of the week.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Life in the Balance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The rally descends into panic, Enjolras shell-shocked as he attempts to help his friends help Grantaire.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Enjolras struggled to suck in a breath under the sudden impact of Grantaire’s weight on top of him. “Get off!” he hissed, trying to shift and find a way out. “I can’t breathe!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire opened his mouth in a silent groan, instead a strangled wine escaping his lips as he tried to think past the explosive heat and pain in his side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras was ready to start shouting at Grantaire before pausing to take in his face, blank with shock, his blue eyes glassy and unseeing. “Grantaire?” Enjolras asked instead, the fire having died in his voice. He managed to get one hand free and pressed it against him, trying to roll him off, before snatching his hand away at something hot and sticky that oozed over his fingers. He realized with a start that it was blood, but who’s, he wasn’t sure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Courf!” Enjolras called, suddenly terrified that he had been shot and hadn’t even registered the pain he assumed he would have felt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Courfeyrac crawled to them, rolling Grantaire’s limp body off of Enjolras. “You alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I--I’m not sure,” Enjolras replied breathlessly, hands going to his abdomen in an attempt to locate the gunshot wound. But when his frantic search proved fruitless, he looked towards Grantaire, Courfeyrac following his gaze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire was clearly struggling, still somewhat coherent as he attempted to pull himself up onto his hands and knees with one arm while the other clutched at his bloody side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We’ve gotta find Jollly. And Ferre. They’ll know what to do,” Enjolras said quickly, not sure what more he could do apart from finding their more-qualified friends.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Courfeyrac shook his head. “First thing’s first, we’ve got to get him, and ourselves, out of here!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras glanced towards the mostly emptied square before nodding. Soldiers were chasing after some of the attendees of the rally, while others were still advancing towards them. “You’re right. We can’t stay,” he agreed before crawling towards the backside of the platform, quickly slipping off and onto the ground before ducking behind it as he heard the stamping of horse hooves grow near.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Courfeyrac squatted beside him, face set with worry. “How are we going to get him away? There’s still quite a few soldiers in the square, not to mention any that might be patrolling the streets…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let’s get him off the platform, first. One thing at a time,” Enjolras replied, more for himself than for Courfeyrac. His thoughts were running a thousand miles a minute, none of them really registering. He shook his head, steadying himself, before risking a glance over the floorboards of the platform.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reached for Grantaire’s hand, trying to pull him back between him and Courf, before struggling as he felt Grantaire being pulled in the opposite direction. One of the soldiers on horseback had grabbed R by the ankle and was hauling him away, at his angle far better at maneuvering his limp frame. Enjolras clung to Grantaire’s hand, trying to keep hold of him, but the far-stronger soldier easily took Grantaire away, pulling him onto the back of his horse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No!” Enjolras cried, vaulting over the platform as the soldier started away. “Grantaire!” he shouted, chasing after the horse with Courfeyrac at his side in an instant. The only thing allowing them to even keep up was the worsening of the storm, the rain now coming down in sheets as thunder crashed overhead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The horse skittered and turned, the soldier just managing to keep Grantaire’s body as he was forced to face Enjolras and Courfeyrac.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Let him go!” Enjolras shouted defiantly at the soldier, who was perhaps no older than he.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Instead, the soldier pulled out his pistol and aimed towards them, though Enjolras somehow doubted the thing would fire in this weather.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Courfeyrac put up his hands, somehow remaining calm and with far more respectable composure than Enjolras presently had. “He’s going to die whether he comes with us or goes with you. He won’t even make it to the guillotine at this rate, so at least let him have something of a dignified death,” he pleaded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The soldier looked between them, unconvinced. “I’ve seen soldiers recover from worse.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“With a doctor’s hand, I’m sure. But we are poor students with barely enough to keep our stomach’s full,” Courfeyrac replied.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The soldier frowned, perhaps giving this argument some consideration, before a shout tore his gaze away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What first was a yell of surprise quickly turned into blood-curdling, screamed orders. “Get him! And get the horse!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A moment later, thundering past them, rode Bahorel with an excited grin adorning his face. He turned, blew a kiss towards the soldier he’d forcibly unmounted, before his horse charged into one of the streets, leaving the soldier purpling with rage and embarrassment easily behind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The guardsman who had taken Grantaire turned in his saddle, Enjolras and Courfeyrac forgotten as his fellow comrades streamed past, chasing after the hijacked horse. His horse reared before starting off down the street as well, and Grantaire’s frame slid off the back and landed on the ground with a sickening crunch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Courfeyrac was the first to move, running to Grantaire and turning him over, putting his ear to his chest. “He’s still breathing, Enj! We’ve got to get him to your flat!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras balked, shifting on his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t be like that! He could be dying and your place is the closest!” Courfeyrac shouted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras gave in with a sigh before going to help his friend, both of them taking one of Grantaire’s arms and starting away from the square.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire’s head lolled, softly groaning as he was jerked about even though Courf and Enj did their best to make their hike as smooth as they could manage.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Did you mean it?” Enjolras asked breathlessly as they stepped inside his building, starting up the stairs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Courfeyrac looked over in confusion. “Mean what?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What you said to that soldier. And just afterwards,” Enjolras murmured, sucking in his lips for a moment before adding, “that Grantaire’s going to… die.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know Enj,” Courfeyrac sighed after a moment. “I’m no doctor, clearly. And he’s lost a lot of blood, but I was just trying anything to get his body back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Just as they reached Enjolras’ door, several of the other Amis came spilling into the building, the voices of Combeferre, Jollly, and Bossuet filtering up towards them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ferre! Jollly! Get up here!” Courfeyrac called down as Enjolras struggled with the door. The thing always had the worst habit of sticking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Courf!” Combeferre’s response came almost immediately, his voice laced with concern. “Are you hurt?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Courfeyrac watched Enjolras before looking down over the bannister. “No, but Grantaire is. Took a bullet to the side.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their steps, which had started slowly up the stairs, suddenly quickened, and the trio arrived on the landing just as Enjolras practically threw himself at the door, trying to get the damned thing to stop sticking. With a loud crack that made all the present men wince, the door gave way and they carried Grantaire inside and to the extra bedroom that served as Enjorlas’ study.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jollly made a face as Bossuet shoved the books and assorted papers off of the bed and onto the floor. “Good heavens, Enjolras. Are you trying to start a fire in here?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I doubt it,” Combeferre replied, glad that he had left his bag at Enjolras’ flat before they’d left for the rally. “But we need water, hot and cold, and alcohol.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras’ lip curled sourly. “The last thing he needs is more alcohol, Ferre.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Not for him to drink. To clean the wound.” he glanced from where he’d torn open Grantaire’s shirt and was holding a piece of the cloth to the wound in an attempt to stop-up the blood flow. “Stop arguing and do as I ask. Otherwise we’re going to be burying him instead of celebrating Christmas with him.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras blinked, the world almost seeming to stop once again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bury him?</span>
  </em>
  <span> He may not have cared for the skeptic or his seeming lack of beliefs, but he did not wish him to be dead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Courfeyrac cleared his throat beside him. “Do you have any alcohol, Enj?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras shook his head after a moment. “Just some wine, but not much.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The alcohol in wine isn’t strong enough,” Combeferre sighed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’ll go find some. I know what kind Jollly likes to use for me whenever I get into my scrapes,” Bossuet said, smiling a bit guiltily. “I’ll see if I can’t find some laudanum, too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jollly looked over. “Laudanum isn’t cheap, Bossuet. There’s a reason we don’t keep it around our own flat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sure I can find something reasonably priced,” Bossuet replied, waving a hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Combeferre shook his head. “No, I don’t want to put him in any further danger by giving him something that was poorly mixed. If he should need it, Jollly or I will get it from a reputable source.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bossuet nodded before taking his leave.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras sucked in his lips, watching his friends for a little while longer before going to put a pot on to boil. He returned a few minutes later, a cup full of cold water clutched between his shaking hands. “It’s a good thing it’s almost winter. I’m not sure the water could get much colder if it weren’t already ice.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Combeferre simply nodded for Enjolras to put it on the desk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire had been turned on his side, Jollly and Courfeyrac attempting to hold him still, the former struggling to keep Grantaire’s restless arms contained.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Combeferre looked up. “Enj, trade places with Jollly. I’m going to need his help to do this right.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras nodded, putting one knee on the bed behind Grantaire’s back before reaching over him and pinning his arms to the bed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire groaned in response, his arms weakly fighting against Enjolras. He was clearly delirious and in pain, and how he was even still awake seemed to be a miracle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Almost like some well-oiled machine, Enjolras watched as Combeferre and Jollly moved around each other wordlessly, setting out assorting surgery implements and cloths and other items. Jollly held up the lantern, Combeferre holding a small set of forceps in the flame before stretching open the bullet wound. He pursed his lips, brow furrowed as he peered inside before slighting the heated forceps into Grantaire’s side.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire’s eyes, which had been glassy and hooded, seemed to clear with some coherence, and his lips parted in a silent scream that caught in his throat. He began struggling anew, attempting to twist and kick to the best of his abilities.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hold him still!” Combeferre hissed, gritting his teeth. “I’ll end up causing more damage the more that he moves.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Courfeyrac nodded, moving to straddle Grantaire’s legs and pin them between his knees.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras, on the other hand, looked back down at Grantaire’s face, tears streaking down his cheeks as he gave up fighting. He wasn’t quite sure what made him do it, but Enjolras adjusting so that he could hold both of Grantaire’s arms with only one hand, and use the other to gently comb his fingers through Grantaire’s thick, coarse curls.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Shh,” he whispered, mouth close to Grantaire’s ear as he watched Combeferre root around inside the wound, looking for the bullet. “It’ll all be over soon and you can just sleep it off. You’re gonna be okay. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be okay,” he continued, voice cracking with unexpected emotion as he watched Combeferre grab at something, a look of satisfaction crossing the Guide’s face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A moment later, Combeferre pulled the forceps out, and with them came something small and jagged and a fresh flow of blood. He dropped the object into a waiting cloth in Jollly’s hand before clamping something back over the wound to staunch the blood flow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enjolras let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “It’s out, R. Just a little bit longer.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grantaire managed a strangled sob in response, squeezing his eyes shut.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jollly couldn’t get rid of the cloth-wrapped bullet quick enough, almost throwing the bundle onto Enjolras’ desk before taking the cup of cold water and passing it over to Combeferre. Combeferre poured the cold water over and into the wound, Grantaire’s body tensing beneath him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Apollo…” Grantaire whispered, only audible to Enjolras, before his eyelids fluttered and his eyes rolled back, finally giving into sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Grantaire?” Enjolras asked in a panic, not even able to register Grantaire’s word.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Combeferre sighed, sitting back. “It’s alright Enj. I’m honestly surprised he lasted as long as he did.” He set aside both the forceps and the empty cup before finding some clean clothes in his bag. “Now help me wrap the bandage around him, and we’ll let him get some sleep.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This particular chapter was a labor of love for me, and I can only hope it shows. R isn't out of the woods yet, and not by a long shot, but at least he's patched up enough to the point that the rest of the boys (for the most part) can gather at the Mussain to make sense of the chaos.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Debrief Among Friends</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The Amis meet at the Mussain and attempt to process what happened that afternoon.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry about the wait! This chapter is a touch shorter, but I decided that this chapter combined with the next would be a bit too much to fit well together.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Enjolras sat at his usual table in the back room of the Mussain, staring blankly at his cup as he tried to make sense of the last few hours.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After Bossuet had returned with Jollly’s alcohol of choice and they’d bandaged Grantaire up, Courfeyrac ordered Enjolras out of the room and to wash up. When Enjolras had stepped into the bathroom and looked at himself in the dingy mirror, he could easily see why.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His clothes were still damp from the rain, wrinkled and bunched from the panic of attempting to escape the National Guard with Grantaire. But his whole side was soaked red with blood, as if he had been the one shot instead of the skeptic. His long, blonde curls, which were usually neatly tied back, were instead a disheveled halo not unlike a lion’s, the ribbon that kept them contained long since lost. Perhaps his vanity had indeed been hurt, but so much worse was looking at his red, blood-shot eyes that stared vacantly back at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hardly recognized the creature in the mirror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning away with a grunt, he quickly shed his clothes and balled them up, kicking them into a corner before taking a bath. Grantaire’s blood had soaked through his shirt and almost into his skin, and he scrubbed his side raw, the bathwater discoloring as he did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He could hear the others through the thin walls of his flat; footsteps trailing back and forth, the front door closing, hushed voices and then Courfeyrac’s tired laughter. How he could even find a reason, let alone the energy to laugh at a time like this was beyond Enjolras, and he sank deeper into the water until he couldn’t hear them any longer, his nose the only thing above the surface.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the water quickly grew cold and despite how numb he felt, even he could not ignore the chill gnawing at his aching limbs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Climbing out of the tub, Enjolras dried off before stumbling into his bedroom and wrapping himself in a blanket as he sat on his bed, a moment later passing out without so much as the stamina to even attempt to get dressed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Several hours passed and he awoke to Courfeyrac urgently knocking on his bedroom door. The rain had since stopped but low clouds still hung in the sky, making the evening almost pitch black. Enjolras had mechanically gotten dressed, and a few minutes later him and Courfeyrac had walked to the cafe in relative silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To say the atmosphere of the Mussain was subdued was a serious understatement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Typically the Amis were a lively bunch as the men planned speeches and rallies and all manner of events, and there were always plenty of jokes to help keep conversation flowing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But today, after all that had happened, Enjolras couldn’t think straight enough to string a coherent thought together, let alone try to say it aloud. And no one was interested in listening to a lecture as they huddled around a single table, taking stock of who was and who wasn’t present.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where’s R?” Bahorel asked when he sat down. “And Combeferre?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re at my flat,” Enjolras replied quietly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ferre volunteered to stay and keep an eye on Grantaire,” Jollly added once it became clear that the others were waiting for further explanation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Feuilly pursed his lips. “What happened to R, then?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He was shot while trying to protect the damsel in distress,” supplied Courfeyrac, an exhausted smile in his voice as he nodded towards Enjolras. “As of when we left, he had yet to wake up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bahorel nodded after a moment. “Do we know anything more about his condition? Where exactly was he shot?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In his side,” Enjolras murmured after having a sip of his coffee, shooting a glare towards Courfeyrac. “Ferre managed to get the bullet out and patch him up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jollly sucked in his lips, his jaw clenching slightly. “He got </span>
  <em>
    <span>most</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the bullet,” he said at barely a whisper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everyone’s attention shifted to him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How does one only get most of the bullet?” Enjolras asked slowly, his eyes suddenly just as intense as when he’d given his speech only hours before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jollly and I took it home to look at when we left your place, a bit of… morbid curiosity on my part,” Bossuet mumbled, turning a bit red. “But anyways, once we’d cleaned it off, we realized it wasn’t whole. There were some jagged bits and it wasn’t perfectly round like it should have been.” To prove his point, procured  a small pouch from his pocket and deposited it into Courfeyrac’s waiting hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Courfeyrac poured out the contents of the pouch before holding it up to the lantern, squinting a bit as he turned it this way and that. And sure enough, the bullet looked almost as if a side of it had been roughly sheared off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan, who had been quietly observing with their face twisted in worry, finally spoke. “Well that… that could happen in the gun, couldn’t it?” they asked hesitantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you mean?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan sucked in their lips. “If the powder isn’t packed right, or the metal of the bullet was brittle, it could break apart in the gun.” They looked between their friends. “I’m just… suggesting that perhaps Combeferre </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> get all of the bullet. Or at least as much as he could get of it. And that the rest is elsewhere. And not in Grantaire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think that’s a bit optimistic, Jehan,” Feuilly murmured, his voice gentle. “If the metal was brittle, it would have completely shattered in the barrel of the gun. And from where the guardsman was when he shot, none of the bullet would have made it to Grantaire.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bahorel nodded in agreement. “If it would have even made it across the square in the first place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No one is suggesting that Ferre is an inept surgeon,” Courfeyrac said, passing the bullet back to Bossuet. “And Grantaire’s side was a bloody mess. He did the best he could.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jehan shook their head. “No, it’s not that. It’s just, well, no one wants Grantaire to pass. But if Ferre didn’t get all of it out, that’s dangerous, right?” They glanced between their friends before looking to Jollly, leaning towards him. “Right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jollly nodded gravely. “Yes, you’re right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps we should take the bullet back to Combeferre and get his opinion on the matter,” Enjolras said after a moment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Courfeyrac sighed. “And perhaps continuing along this line of thinking is only going to cause us to spiral.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a pause before the others murmured in agreement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we visit him?” Jehan asked after a moment. “Once he’s awake, of course.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jollly made a sour face. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I mean no offense but… You could bring in things that could get him infected!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m very offended, for the record,” Bahorel replied, smirking slightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bossuet laughed, shaking his head. “We’ll be careful, Jollly. Besides, he’s all bandaged up. As long as we aren’t bringing infection with us while he’s getting his bandages changed, he’ll be fine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jollly squinted at him before relenting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And though the conversation was still a bit muted, the Amis present found ways to laugh, before eventually deciding to play a game of cards to fill the time, none of them having the capacity for their usual evening activities.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On the walk home, just as they reached the outside of his building, Enjolras stopped Courfeyrac, looking across the wet streets of Paris as a carriage rolled past them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long will Grantaire be staying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Courfeyrac looked over. “Well, until it’s safe to move him. His place is near the Mussain, but that’s not exactly a short walk for someone who’s been recently injured and on their sickbed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras’ jaw tightened. “How long?” he pressed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ferre says he thinks it will be at least a week. And perhaps more if he gets an infection. Or if there really is more bullet still somewhere inside of him,” Courfeyrac replied after a moment. “It may not be until just before Christmas, depending on how he heals.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras groaned, running a hand over his face. “Courf, we have papers due. Tests to study for. The end of the semester is coming up and I can’t be a… a nurse! Let alone to him!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thus why Combeferre is staying over right now. I can too, and our other friends will undoubtedly be over to help,” Courfeyrac added before smirking. “And I’m not sure Grantaire would </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> you to be his nurse with that kind of bedside manner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras rolled his eyes before shaking his head. “My flat is not the Mussain. The last thing I need is people calling to see Grantaire or crowding around while I’m trying to work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Courfeyrac sighed. “You’re exhausted, Enjolras. And all of us are still in shock from everything that’s happened today. I mean, listen to you! More concerned about your scholarship than your friend who was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>shot </span>
  </em>
  <span>trying to save your life!” He shook his head, taking a breath. “You need to sleep. In the morning we can talk more about people coming over and when Grantaire is healthy enough to go back to his own flat.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras squinted before going inside his building and starting up the stairs. “I am thankful for Grantaire, and what he did. But even him standing in front of a bullet for me does not quite convince me that he is interested in a freed France, or any of the things we believe in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Enjolras, he was ready to be a martyr for you!” Courfeyrac called after him, but his words fell on deaf ears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Enjolras entered his flat, not even so much as nodding to Combeferre as he went straight to his bedroom and closed the door behind him.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>You think Enj is bad at feelings now? Just wait...</p><p>Let me know what you think and if you have any ideas or suggestions!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Night of Anguish</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Enjolras sees the skeptic in a new light.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>A few hours had passed and Enjolras had not found the sweet release of sleep like he had earlier in the day. In fact, he laid wide-awake and stared at his water-stained ceiling after tossing and turning, unable to get comfortable.</p>
<p>Combeferre and Courfeyrac had long fallen silent, and Enjolras was fairly certain they had probably fallen asleep on his single couch hours before. He had heard snippets of their conversation as he’d gotten ready for bed; Courf telling Ferre about the bullet, Ferre devising plans to attempt to have another look inside Grantaire’s wound, the pair discussing how long it would take said wound to heal. But their conversation had soon grown quieter and eventually faded away completely into the sounds of Paris at night.</p>
<p>Unable to take the deafening silence any longer, Enjolras peeled himself out of bed and pulled on a pair of pants beneath his nightshirt before quietly padding out of his room.</p>
<p>In the dim light of a dying lamp, he could make out the peaceful faces of his sleeping friends, Courfeyrac curled up against Combeferre with the latter’s arm wrapped around the former’s waist. Courfeyrac, who was always quick to make anyone else’s home his own, had shed his vest and coat, his long shirt pulled out of his pants and draped around him almost like a very short dress. With his long, brown curls cascading over Combeferre’s chest and hiding his own face, and their intimate position, it was almost easy to mistake Courfeyrac for a woman curled up in the arms of her lover.</p>
<p>Enjolras remembered vividly the first time he’d caught his two closest friends acting far closer than friends usually did.</p>
<p>It had been a rowdy night at the cafe, and even he had indulged in a few drinks. But as usual, he had stayed closer to sober than tipsy and had been the last to leave, deliberately packing his bag before making his way back home. He’d been lost in his thoughts, generally ignoring the world around him, before he’d heard something of a strangled moan.</p>
<p>When he turned to see what was going on, he was confronted with the image of Combeferre pressed against a dingy wall, head tilted to the side and eyes half-closed as someone pinned him there, sucking lewdly at his collarbone.</p>
<p>Not stopping to think, Enjolras had thrown the offending party away from his friend, only to find it was Courfeyrac. Enjolras had run before either could say anything, mortified at having caught his best friends in such a compromising position and ashamed at the strange feelings it stirred within himself.</p>
<p>Courfeyrac and Combeferre had always been close, and Enjolras had never questioned it. At times, he was even a touch jealous at the ease the pair found around each other. But Courfeyrac was always more of a touchy, feely person, and Combeferre hadn’t seemed bothered either way. After that night, however, their every interaction came into sharp focus as Enjolras realized the pair were perhaps more than just close friends.</p>
<p>The next afternoon, when he had returned from his classes, he found Courfeyrac and Combeferre waiting for him, their faces twisted with worry. But Enjolras found that he could honestly care less if they were lovers. They seemed happy together, and after that humiliatingly awkward conversation, he had found he had never felt more comfortable around the pair.</p>
<p>But now, standing in his flat and unable to sleep or calm his mind, he felt that familiar sting of jealousy. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had seemingly found their other half, that person that would hold them after hard days and convince them that everything would be alright. A small part of Enjolras, a part he rarely acknowledged and at times wished he could dispose of, longed to have the same kind of relationship with someone that Courf and Ferre had with each other.</p>
<p>He sighed, picking up the dying lamp and carefully going to his guest room-turned-office-turned-hospital. The door let out a high pitched but quiet squeak as he carefully pressed it open, and for a moment he held his breath, listening to see if anyone had awoken. But after a few moments of tense silence, he pressed the rest of the way into the small, dark room and set the lamp down on his desk.</p>
<p>The flame sputtered before steadying, throwing eerie shadows across the room as Enjolras sifted through the papers and books that had been gracelessly thrown to the floor earlier. At least, after he had left to clean up, one of his friends had taken some care to organize the mess into stacks. He let himself be absorbed into re-organizing his things, doing his best to ignore the deathly-still, sleeping figure draped on the bed.</p>
<p>An hour had gone by and Enjolras was feeling quite happy with himself, having been able to open one of his books and at least write some useful notes in the margins as he read. At least his studies still held some amount of comfort and distraction for him.</p>
<p>But just as Enjolras had started to forget Grantaire was even a fixture in his room, he heard the man’s breath hitch suddenly, and then a weak moan escaped his lips.</p>
<p>Enjolras froze mid page-turn, closing his eyes as he listened for more only to be startled again when Grantaire moaned a bit louder.</p>
<p>“Grantaire?” Enjolras asked quietly, looking over his shoulder towards the skeptic.</p>
<p>Even though his face was shrouded in darkness, Enjolras could make out his twisted expression, pain and fear etched across his features. But his eyes were still shut.</p>
<p>Enjolras shifted in his chair, sucking in his lips before going to the bed and carefully sitting on the edge, resting a hand on Grantaire’s arm. “Grantaire, are you awake? Can you hear me?”</p>
<p>Grantaire's expression turned a bit closer to neutral as his eyes struggled to open. “Enj?”</p>
<p>Enjolras blinked, turning so that he could better face Grantaire, a gentle smile on his face. “You are awake. I… Ferre didn’t think you’d wake up until morning at the earliest.”</p>
<p>Grantaire’s eyes fluttered open, and though they were glassy from fatigue and pain, they were very much alive. Just as soon as he’d opened his eyes, though, they slipped back shut. “Need… something to--to drink,” he managed, voice hoarse.</p>
<p>“Water,” Enjolras replied sternly. “Nothing else.”</p>
<p>Grantaire simply moaned, not even putting up a fight.</p>
<p>Enjolras quietly padded out of the room and returned a short while later with a glass of water, sitting down beside Grantaire once more. “Here,” he held it out.</p>
<p>Grantaire reached for the glass, his hand shaking as he tried to take hold of it. “Could---would you mind?” he asked, his voice laced with pain.</p>
<p>Enjolras blinked before nodding, carefully helping Grantaire take a few sips of the water before putting the glass on the desk. Part of him knew he should have woken Combeferre, but something kept him rooted beside Grantaire, studying his face and wanting this moment to be just between the two of them.</p>
<p>“You alright?” Grantaire mumbled, his eyes closing once more. It seemed it was all he could do to keep them open for more than a few seconds.</p>
<p>Enjolras tiredly snorted. “I should be asking you that.”</p>
<p>“Probably,” Grantaire mumbled before starting to suck in a breath. But as he did, his face twisted and his hand flew to his side, and he whined in pain.</p>
<p>“Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, searching his face and grabbing his hand, holding it to his chest to keep him from touching his wound. Grantaire’s palm and fingertips were soft, and he imagined that his long fingers allowed him a dexterity that contributed to his talent as an artist. But the outside of his hands, along his knuckles and joints, were calloused and rough, in some places still scabbed over from his last boxing match.</p>
<p>How had Enjolras never noticed these little things before? And why were they suddenly so important now?</p>
<p>Grantaire groaned after a moment, his nails digging into Enjolras’ hand before he settled. “What happened? I---I only remember some of it…”</p>
<p>“I don’t think you should worry about that right now,” Enjolras murmured in reply, gently squeezing his hand.</p>
<p>Grantaire looked up at him, squinting. “When did you start attending medical school?”</p>
<p>Enjolras blushed. “I, Grantaire, I just think that perhaps you should focus on resting. And you’re exhausted and delirious.” He paused. “And isn’t that what you’re supposed to say?”</p>
<p>“All I can focus on is how much my side hurts,” Grantaire mumbled.</p>
<p>Enjolras sucked in his lips, looking around at the assorted books in his guest room. He could feel his face growing even warmer. “Do you want me to read to you?”</p>
<p>“Do you have something that isn’t political or philosophical?”</p>
<p>Enjolras sighed before getting up from the bed and rooting around through his stacks before coming across a copy of Ovid’s Metamorphoses. As soon as Grantaire’s hand had left his own, he felt immediately emptier. “You like the classics, right?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Grantaire managed.</p>
<p>Enjolras carefully pulled out the book before returning to the bed, sitting down beside Grantaire and pulling his feet up. He looked to the skeptic, a man who usually found every conceivable way to get on his nerves, and instead saw something different. In this moment, Grantaire was not a jaded alcoholic, floating through the world with little care. Instead, he seemed to hang on Enjolras every word, taking in each movement just as Enjolras did the same to him.</p>
<p>After a moment of studying each other, Enjolras opened the book to the very beginning, taking Grantaire’s hand after a moment of searching through the pages.</p>
<p>Grantaire leaned into him, his eyes closing as he listened to Enjolras’ voice. In this room, and this moment, his voice wasn’t as forceful or fiery as it was at the cafe or during his speeches. Instead it was soft and melodic, and even a bit hoarse, though it was easy to blame that on stress.</p>
<p>Enjolras read one myth, and then another, and then another, until he forgot where one myth ended and another began. His head was swimming with ancient Greek and Latin names, but Grantaire would gently correct him each time he would pronounce something wrong until his fatigue overtook him and he fell back asleep.</p>
<p>And soon Enjolras found himself drifting off, lulled by the sound of Grantaire’s steady breathing and feel of his warmth against his side.</p>
<p>Only a few hours had passed, though it felt like far less, when Enjolras was awoken once more by Combeferre.</p>
<p>“Enjolras, get up,” he hissed, face twisted with worry.</p>
<p>Enjolras groaned tiredly. “What’s wrong?” He looked around the room, his gaze foggy with sleep. Courfeyrac had opened the small window and parted the curtains, letting cool air into the almost stiflingly warm room. A pail sat on the desk with a rag hanging out of it while another was draped over Grantaire’s forehead, which was so sallow as to appear gray in palor.</p>
<p>“It's Grantaire… he’s burning up with fever, and we can’t get him awake.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Imbalance in the Humors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Enjolras learns some very basic nursing skills as Combeferre attempts to get control of Grantaire's infection.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A warning to those who are perhaps a bit squeamish when it comes to bodily fluids... There are mentions of pus and such in this chapter, and though I tried to keep it relatively mild, I don't want to blindside you or upset anyone who would be bothered by that.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Enjolras stumbled out of the bed, trying to get his bearings as Combeferre and Courfeyrac moved around him, pulling the heavy blankets off of Grantaire’s still frame and propping him up so they could unwind his bandage.</p><p>“Enjolras, can you get one of your sleeping shirts?” Combeferre asked.</p><p>Enjolras flushed. “I’m… far thinner than he is,” he mumbled, looking down at himself. It was easy to see, between Grantaire’s boxing and ballet, that he was far more gifted in muscle than Enjolras was, who often preferred shutting himself up with books and papers to any kind of physical activity.</p><p>Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “You’re not that much smaller than him. And I know you wear your sleeping shirts big,” he nodded towards Enjolras, whose open collar had slipped over one of his shoulders. “It’s just temporary, but he’s soaked through this shirt and Jehan won’t be bringing some of Grantaire’s own clothes until later.”</p><p>“Right,” Enjolras nodded after a moment before turning and going to his own room to rifle through his wardrobe.</p><p>He hadn’t remembered falling asleep the night before. He certainly didn’t remember curling around Grantaire, with their hands clasped tightly together and fingers interlaced. But that was how he had been awoken, with his face buried in the crook of Grantaire’s neck, breathing in the musty scent of stale wine and dried paint. It had been soothing, that scent mixed with the steady rise and fall of Grantaire’s chest and the strange stories of ancient myths, jumbling together to pull him into sleep.</p><p>Despite the fact that it had only been three or four hours at most, it was perhaps some of the better sleep Enjolras had gotten in his life. At least, it was better than any sleep he could remember getting in the last few years.</p><p>His mind immediately balked at the stirrings of some kind of strange affection that bubbled inside of him.</p><p><em>Grantaire only shows up to make fun,</em> Enjolras inner voice chided. <em>He does not believe in you or in liberty or in the republic, just as he does not believe in the silly myths he insisted you read to him last night.</em></p><p>Enjolras couldn’t help but wince. That wasn’t entirely true. He had, after all, willingly volunteered to read to Grantaire, to help him get his mind off of the pain in his side.</p><p>His own inner skeptic seemed to mull this over, and he was struck at the irony of his personal skepticism of the self-proclaimed skeptic presently occupying his guest room.</p><p>Good heavens, he was tired.</p><p>He found an extra night shirt and made his way back to the other room, where he was met with the sight of Courfeyrac doing his best not to gag while Combeferre prodded at Grantaire’s open wound. The wound itself had almost seemed to have grown since the initial surgery yesterday. The skin around the bullet-hole was inflamed and puffy, angry red stripes streaking across Grantaire’s flesh. There wasn’t any blood seeping out, but instead a strange, sticky, milky-yellow substance that smelled positively awful.</p><p>Enjolras covered his mouth with the back of his hand, face twisted in disgust as Combeferre methodically squeezed out the ooze, face set in concentration. “What is that?” Enjolras asked as Combeferre wiped it away.</p><p>“Pus,” Combeferre replied after a moment, watching for more oozing. “Grantaire’s wound is infected. We didn’t clean it well enough yesterday.”</p><p>Courfeyrac slowly nodded. “Is that why he has the fever?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Enjolras pursed his lips, setting the shirt aside. “So what do we do?”</p><p>“We’ll have to cut open the wound and clean it out again, more thoroughly this time, mind you,” Combeferre murmured before sitting back and rubbing his face. “Put a pot on to boil.”</p><p>“What kind of tea would you like?” Enjolras asked almost instinctively.</p><p>Combeferre softly snorted. “I’ll hold off for now, I think. I don’t need to be jittery while holding a knife and doing surgery. We need the hot water to help clean the wound. Honey to promote healing, too. But if you have any willow bark, we can make a tea from that to give to Grantaire to help get his fever down.”</p><p>“I… wouldn’t even know where to find willow bark,” Enjolras blinked.</p><p>Courfeyrac waved a hand. “I’ll go find Jollly; he’ll know. And I don’t know that I can handle that smell for much longer…”</p><p>Combeferre shook his head, smiling with exasperation. “Fine, just don’t be gone too long.” He pulled over a spare piece of parchment before jotting down a list and passing it to his lover. “While you’re out, get these things as well.”</p><p>Courfeyrac nodded. “I’ll find breakfast too,” he added before turning on his heel and taking his leave.</p><p>Enjolras watched him go before looking back at Grantaire and the infected wound. “Courf isn’t wrong; that is a properly rank smell.”</p><p>“I know, but you’ve just got to suck it up and deal with it,” Combeferre said, sighing as he pulled out a blade and began to pop open the sutures he’d so neatly tied the day before. “The scent is only going to get worse before it gets better, Enj. Why don’t you get the water started?”</p><p>Enjolras nodded, starting out of the room. “Right. Water.”</p><p>Supposedly a watched pot never boiled (not that Enjolras would know either way; he almost never cooked), and the adage proved especially true as Enjolras stared at the still surface of the water, willing it to start bubbling. When staring at the water proved fruitless, he began to pace, peering in through the open door of the guest room each time he passed. </p><p>Combeferre had stacked several of Enjolras’ books, Ovid’s Metamorphoses among them, to precariously set the lamp on top of, and he was now carefully bent over Grantaire, cutting away the infected tissue and blotting out the pus and blood that seeped up in the wake of his blade. It would have been mesmerizing to watch, had it not been so repugnant.</p><p><em>That is why Ferre is in medical school and I am studying to be a lawyer</em>, Enjolras thought to himself before pausing, his brow wrinkling in confusion. <em>How ever does Jollly survive this stuff?</em></p><p>“Enjolras, how’s the water coming?” Combeferre asked, his voice even and commanding yet somehow also gentle.</p><p>Enjolras startled out of his musings and went to the stove, sighing in relief as he saw the water bubbling. “It’s ready!” he called back.</p><p>“Good. Pour some of it into a mug and bring it here.”</p><p>Enjolras nodded, doing as he’d been told and stepping carefully into the room, a jar of honey also in-hand. “I remember you mentioned it,” he said softly as he set it down.</p><p>Combeferre looked up and smiled. “Excellent. Thank you, Enjolras.” He nodded towards the lamp, where something small and metallic sat beside it on the cover of Ovid. “I was able to find more of the bullet. I hope that’s the last of it.”</p><p>Enjolras pursed his lips, studying the small, jagged piece of metal. “Is this what’s causing the infection?”</p><p>“Probably in part,” he replied, “but with these sorts of things, it can sometimes be a bit of a gamble.” Combeferre gave a sigh before returning his attentions to Grantaire. With the alcohol and hot water, and a clean cloth he already had on-hand, he began the painstaking process of cleaning the wound once more.</p><p>Enjolras watched his steady, practiced hands for a few moments before looking up at Grantaire’s face. To his knowledge, Combeferre hadn’t given him any kind of anesthetic, and yet his face didn’t even twitch as the physician-in-training worked. Enjolras found himself holding his hand under Grantaire’s nose, a small sense of relief flooding him as he felt the skeptic’s hot breath brush across his knuckles.</p><p>As Combeferre sat back, a fresh line of neat stitches now holding Grantaire’s side closed, Courfeyrac returned.</p><p>“Oh, good. I wasted just enough time,” he smiled, but his attempt to lighten the mood of the  guest room-now-turned-surgery fell short with the pained look on his face.</p><p>Combeferre looked over before taking the items from Courf’s hands. “Thank you, Courf.” He sorted through the items before passing some back. “Why don’t you start the tea and set out breakfast while Enjolras and I finish up in here?”</p><p>Courfeyrac didn’t need to be told twice before going out to the small kitchen and setting to work.</p><p>Enjolras tilted his head to the side, watching as Combeferre applied the honey and a poultice Courfeyrac and brought around the wound before pulling out a fresh bandage.</p><p>“Can you help me prop him up and get this around him?” Combeferre asked after a few minutes, looking to Enjolras.</p><p>Enjolras blinked before nodding. “Y—yeah, sure. I can try, at least.” He carefully wrapped an arm under one of Grantaire’s and around his back before slowly sitting him up.</p><p>Grantaire’s skin was warm, almost hot to the touch, yet smooth beneath Enjolras’ fingers. His head lolled, his chin on his chest while his dark curls hung around him, shielding his face from view. Enjolras felt the distinct want to comb his fingers through those tightly-coiled locks, just as he’d seen Combeferre do to Courfeyrac whenever the pair was curled up together.</p><p>But before he could, he felt Combeferre shoving the roll of bandage into his free hand.</p><p>“Wrap it tightly, but not too tight. We want to keep everything out, but he still needs to be able to breathe,” Combeferre instructed, giving Enjolras an encouraging nod.</p><p>Enjolras nodded back, pulling the bandage around Grantaire’s side and back before passing it back to Combeferre. They continued in this manner for a few more revolutions before Combeferre tied the bandage off behind Grantaire’s back, mentioning how it would be harder for Grantaire to untie the bandage accidentally in his sleep at such an angle.</p><p>When they finished, Courfeyrac returned with the tea, as well as a fresh pail of cool water.</p><p>“What do we do now?” Enjolras asked as he carefully laid Grantaire back against the pillows that Combeferre had fluffed up. </p><p>Combeferre sighed. “We have him drink the tea, keep him cooled off, and continue to clean the wound.”</p><p>“That’s it?”</p><p>“Yes,” Combeferre replied, fixing a kind gaze on Enjolras. “Hopefully the humors will balance themselves out with that help.”</p><p>Enjolras sucked in his lips, looking down at Grantaire’s almost peaceful face. “What it they don’t?”</p><p>“Then I suppose we’ll need to get in contact with his family, if he has any left,” Courfeyrac whispered.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>If I was ever to look into going back into a clinical-type role in healthcare, I would absolutely go into wound care, because that sort of thing is very interesting to me and does not make me squeamish in the least. Basically, it was really fun researching for this chapter. Fun fact: Honey was discovered by the ancient Egyptians to have wound healing properties by keeping wounds moist and being an early anti-microbial, which helped to fight against infection. Of course this is not meant to be taken as medical advice; if you do have an open wound, please consult with your healthcare professional before applying honey or any other kind of cream/ointment/food item to said wound. </p><p>Let me know what you think of this chapter!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The Fear of Death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Enjolras does his best to not feel anything when confronted with the possibility that Grantaire may not survive.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Fair warning that Enjolras reacts in a bit of an unhealthy manner throughout this chapter. Of course, we all experience grief in different ways, but please, please do not just bottle up your emotions if you're in a grieving state. It's important to work those things out of your system and learn to heal &lt;3.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Enjolras felt his mind go blank as Courfeyrac ushered him out of the room, leaving Combeferre to take care of Grantaire.</p><p><em>Grantaire… dead?</em> Enjolras fell into a seat at his small table, staring into a cup of coffee Courfeyrac had prepared for him.</p><p>“Enjolras, talk to me,” Courfeyrac said gently, sitting down across from him.</p><p>Enjolras shook his head. “Grantaire can’t die,” he said finally.</p><p>“I don’t want him to die either, Enjolras. But there’s only so much we can do,” Courfeyrac murmured.</p><p>“<em>No</em>.” He looked up at Courfeyrac, eyes burning. “He <em>can’t</em> die. I won’t let him.”</p><p>Courfeyrac arched a brow. “Are you going to march in and order him to get up and carry his mat home like a biblical miracle? Last I checked, Enjolras, you aren’t Jesus Christ himself.”</p><p>Enjolras balked. “You make me sound like an idiot.”</p><p>“That is not my intent.” Courfeyrac sighed. “But what more can we do that we haven’t already done? Combeferre knows what he’s doing, even if he is only a student of medicine right now. And I’m sure that the minute he feels comfortable enough to leave Grantaire’s side, he’s going to go and find every book and paper he can that talks about treating wounds and infections. No one is more invested in this than he is.”</p><p>“I am!” Enjolras cried angrily, slamming a hand on the table as he stood.</p><p>Courfeyrac slowly took a breath, meeting Enjolras’ gaze. “Because you want your privacy back? Because you have exams and papers?” His voice was gentle, but the questions loaded after their conversation the night before.</p><p>“No, that—I didn’t mean that, yesterday…” Enjolras trailed off, looking down.</p><p>Courfeyrac nodded. “I think you owe Grantaire an apology then, even if he didn’t hear what you said. But why are you so upset?”</p><p>“Because I don’t want my friends to die!” Enjolras replied in exasperation. “Why aren’t you <em>more</em> upset?”</p><p>“I <em>am</em> upset, Enjolras. But making a scene isn’t going to help Combeferre or Grantaire right now,” Courfeyrac murmured.</p><p>Enjolras made a sour face but didn’t do more to respond.</p><p>“Do you like him as more than a friend?” Courfeyrac asked after a moment.</p><p>Enjolras’ head snapped up as he responded too quickly. “No, don’t be absurd.”</p><p>“You’re allowed to like people, Enj,” Courf chided.</p><p>He rolled his eyes in response. “I would hardly call Grantaire a friend. More like… an annoying acquaintance.”</p><p>“Annoying or not, you’ve said yourself that without his counterpoints your speeches could very well fall flat on those with opposing views,” Courfeyrac said, the hint of a smile pulling at his lips.</p><p>Enjolras, eager to latch onto any topic of conversation that had nothing to do with him even <em>potentially</em> liking Grantaire, nodded. “Exactly. And he… I don’t want him to become a martyr. I mean, what a story it will be when he survives this!” He started to smile slightly as his mind ran away from anything that resembled a feeling. “The people, they could rally around him! A working-class young man, kicked out of art school with very little prospects, wrongfully shot by the national guard at a peaceful gathering while trying to protect someone else? And then he survives in miraculous fashion?” He grinned. “The speech practically writes itself.”</p><p>Courfeyrac blinked, lips parted as he tried to come up with a rational response to Enjolras’ seemingly-insane tangent. “He was trying to protect <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Enjolras waved a hand, taking his coffee and walking towards his bedroom as he locked away any emotion that wasn’t righteous fury for the people of France. “I have things to work on. Let me know if anything changes.”</p><p> </p><p><br/>
Despite his earlier insistence that it would, Enjolras’ speech did not, in fact, write itself.</p><p>Words were scribbled across the page, loosely connected into coherent thoughts, but it was far from anything Enjolras would be willing to utter aloud to even his closest friends. Part of him was frustrated. He had worked so very heard over the years to perfect his speech-writing abilities, turning them almost into an exact science. But that supposed science did nothing for him now. His mind balked every time he wrote Grantaire’s name, attempting to paint the skeptic as a hero for the people. </p><p><em>But he isn’t a hero at all, and certainly not for the people of France,</em> he chided himself. </p><p>Angry, he found himself scratching out every mention of Grantaire’s name, filling in the spaces with descriptors or pronouns more suitable to the narrative he was desperately trying to construct.</p><p>All the while he ignored the noise outside of his bedroom.</p><p>He knew people were coming and going, trying to get an update on Grantaire and bringing what they could to help. But Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to face them. They’d want to know how he was getting on or ask what they could do or when they could come over next, and it was best to leave those questions to Combeferre.</p><p><em>Apparently perfect Combeferre is the only one allowed to be the most invested in Grantaire’s care</em>, Enjolras thought bitterly before squeezing his eyes shut. <em>Stop it, I shouldn’t be feeling that way. He’s a surgeon and I’m just a bloody lawyer.</em></p><p>“Enjolras?” Jehan’s soft voice asked from the door.</p><p>Enjolras glanced back before weakly smiling. “Jehan.”</p><p>Jehan’s arms were full of flowers, and their face was adorned with a small smile as they stepped into the bedroom. “I brought flowers, ones that symbolize healing and rebirth and all that. But Jollly nearly had a heart attack and Combeferre agreed that they probably shouldn’t be in R’s room until the wound is closed up.”</p><p>Enjolras nodded. “Oh, well I’m sure someone will tell him when he wakes up that you tried to bring them.”</p><p>“I think I’ll leave them in your room so that you can tell him. It needs some brightening up anyways,” Jehan said in reply, walking around the room and opening up the curtains, neatly arranging the flowers just so on the windowsill.<br/>
Enjolras rolled his eyes but let Jehan do as they please, continuing to write.</p><p>Jehan went around the room, collecting a pile of dirty clothes to be laundered before setting the bed and fluffing the pillows, being more than a bit motherly as they did.</p><p>Enjolras was grateful for his childhood friend. They’d both had very similar lives, growing up in the lap of luxury and coming of age during the First Restoration. Though their families lived practically on opposite sides of the country from each other and the pair only saw each other a couple times a year as children, they were fast friends and frequently sent letters and books back and forth. It was Enjolras’ first true experience at writing essays and speeches that reflected his beliefs without being reprimanded for it. He had quickly learned that his private tutor had no patience for his fiery words and would grab out a switch each time he spoke out of turn.</p><p>Unlike Courfeyrac, Jehan didn’t often pry. Their presence was a calming one, and they always seemed to know what someone needed the moment they stepped into that person’s presence. Today, they’d decided that Enjolras clearly needed some semblance of order in his life, and had set about being a housekeeper for their friend instead of digging into Enjolras’ feelings towards Grantaire.</p><p>“Do you want me to take these to be laundered?” Jehan asked, gesturing to the pile of clothes.</p><p>Enjolras looked back before shaking his head. “No, but thank you. I’ll take them myself later, stretch my legs and get some fresh air.”</p><p>Jehan nodded before resting a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Are you alright?” they asked gently.</p><p>Enjolras looked up at them before smiling tiredly. “Of course I am, Jehan. Alright as one can possibly be with an acquaintance on their sick-bed.”</p><p>Jehan studied him skeptically before sighing and nodding, not pressing any further. “I think perhaps you should get some rest. Ferre mentioned you did a good job last night taking care of Grantaire and I’m sure he’d appreciate your help again.” They nodded before going to leave. “See you tomorrow, Enj.”</p><p>Enjolras nodded. “See you tomorrow.” He watched Jehan leave the room before turning back to his paper and getting absorbed into re-writing the speech, this time finding something closer to his usual cadence and style. </p><p>It was far easier to write about Grantaire’s “sacrifice” when he wasn’t really writing about Grantaire in the first place. Instead, the man he wrote about truly was heroic, ducking in front of not just him but some innocent person in the crowd to protect them. He likened him to Patroclus in the Illiad, a steadying force for his allies that each side fought to get the body of.</p><p>He was writing about this hero’s battle against infection, making a metaphor to the people of France fighting against corruption, when Enjolras felt a hand on his shoulder.</p><p>“Enjolras, you should come eat,” Combeferre murmured, his voice gentle yet laced with pain. “And there’s something we should probably discuss.”</p><p>Enjolras blinked before nodding, biting the inside of his cheek to tamp down the emotion Combeferre’s words began to stir up.</p><p>Courfeyrac and Combeferre had set out a homely dinner, warm bread with some kind of soup the pair had thrown together with everything their friends had brought throughout the day. They sat in silence, the only sounds being the clinking of their spoons as they stirred their soup, pretending to eat.</p><p>The deafening hush stretched on for what felt like hours before Courfeyrac cleared his throat.</p><p>“How is our patient looking?” he asked, opening up the opportunity for Combeferre to speak.</p><p>Combeferre sighed, shaking his head. “His temperature is… dangerously high. And he hasn’t shown any signs of waking up.” He looked towards Enjolras expectantly, but Enjolras refused to meet his gaze or even look up from his bowl.<br/>
Courfeyrac nodded after a moment. “How about his wound?”</p><p>“It looks better, for now at least,” Combeferre replied before pausing and shaking his head. “Well, it doesn’t look any worse than it did when we woke up this morning, which is a good thing.”</p><p>“That’s good, at least,” Courfeyrac agreed before gently kicking Enjolras’ leg. “Do you… have anything to add?”</p><p>Enjolras shook his head. “Not at present.”</p><p>Combeferre set his spoon down on the table before leaning back and adjusting his glasses. “Are you just going to pretend as if you don’t care, now?”</p><p>Enjolras finally looked up, fixing his gaze on his friend. “What would you have me do? I’m not qualified in any manner to help him, not like you are as Courfeyrac pointed out earlier. And I weep for all the dying people of France. He is included among them.”<br/>
“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac rested a hand over his, “he isn’t dead, yet. Don’t shut yourself away in your room as if he is. And he’s your friend—”</p><p>“Acquaintance,” Enjolras corrected.</p><p>“Just—Just stop it! Stop removing yourself from the situation!” Courfeyrac shouted, running his hands through his hair. “Grantaire might not make it through the night at this rate! And he cared enough about you to step in front of a god-damned bullet! You should give enough of a fuck about him to at least sit beside him and help him pass easily if it comes to that!”</p><p>Both Combeferre and Enjolras stared, trying to formulate a response to his outburst.</p><p>After a few moments of tense silence, Enjolras sucked in a breath and got to his feet, taking his bowl to the kitchen counter. “Courfeyrac, you are overreacting. Combeferre just said that the wound is already looking bette—”</p><p>“No, you do not get to accuse me of overreacting when you aren’t reacting at all to the possible and unfortunately <em>very likely</em> death of your friend!” Courfeyrac retorted. “I don’t know what he sees in you, but I’m glad that he’s been asleep through this whole ordeal! You can’t be bothered to say something even <em>remotely</em> sympathetic!”</p><p>Enjolras blinked before looking to Combeferre. “Are you not going to mediate?”</p><p>Combeferre shook his head tiredly. “No, Enjolras, I’m not.”</p><p>“Ferre…”</p><p>“No, Courfeyrac is right. I said the wound didn’t look like it was getting any worse, not that it was suddenly healed. And I—I would be surprised if Grantaire does make it through the night. His fever is incredibly high and while I am doing my best to give him fluids, he hasn’t had anything to eat since before the rally. His body… it might not have the energy to fight,” Combeferre sighed, folding his napkin before going back to the guest room. “Why don’t you go to Feuilly’s or Jehan’s? It’s clear you don’t want to be here.”</p><p>Courfeyrac followed him, leaving Enjolras alone in his living room. Feeling hurt and betrayed, he stumbled into his own room and collapsed on the bed, doing his best to bite back his tears.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I promise that I do write happy things and that Grantaire will survive. If you'd like to read a happy, fluffy thing, please check out "These Small Indulgences," which is a one-shot modern-day AU where R proposes to Enj and Enj ruins it in spectacular fashion. Here's a link for your reading pleasure: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30669305</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Spark of a Returned Life</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Enjolras finally allows himself to feel something.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Two chapters in one day? Why yes, I can't leave you all thinking Grantaire is on the verge of death for the next week.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>That night, Enjolras tossed and turned in bed, heart aching painfully. He had tried to write, attempted to bury his feelings with the swish of his pen, but his whole being shook with the gravity of the situation and of his friends’ words.</p>
<p>Was it cruel to bottle up the emotions that you knew you couldn’t rightfully hope to contain?</p>
<p><em>Perhaps not,</em> Enjolras thought to himself, memorizing the shape of the water stains on his ceiling for the umpteenth time, <em>but it is selfish. And selfishness is it’s own form of cruelty.</em></p>
<p>He thought back to the night before, with Grantaire curled against him, their hands clasped as he read Ovid. In those brief moments, despite the strange stories and the strangeness of their present circumstances, the world almost felt like it made sense.</p>
<p>The world made sense with Grantaire in it, and Enjolras wasn’t entirely sure he could cope without him, despite all of his rants to Combeferre and Courfeyrac about just how disruptive R could be at meetings. But he would miss the disruptions and the jokes. He would miss Grantaire calling him Apollo or Achilles. He would miss seeing that dark head of curls that bounced as Grantaire walked into the back room of the Mussain and the scent of dried paint and stale wine that he’d only just discovered the night before.</p>
<p>Enjolras stumbled to his feet, combing his fingers through his hair as he peered out into the living room.</p>
<p>Combeferre and Courfeyrac were sitting on the couch, Ferre quietly crying into Courf’s chest as he gripped his shirt.</p>
<p>Enjolras watched for a moment before looking away painfully and turning to go back into his room.</p>
<p>But Courfeyrac had already seen him and waved him out. “Enjolras…”</p>
<p>Enjolras winced before walking into the living room with his head hung.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac whispered, looking up at him. “Not for what I said, necessarily, but at least how I said it. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”</p>
<p>Enjolras nodded. “You were right, about what you said.”</p>
<p>“I still shouldn’t yell. You’re one of my closest friends,” Courfeyrac murmured.</p>
<p>Enjolras nodded before looking to Combeferre and then to the closed guest-room door. “Is R…?”</p>
<p>“He’s… still breathing,” Combeferre managed.</p>
<p>“It’s just been a long night and Ferre could use a break,” Courfeyrac said softly. “Do you think you can manage?”</p>
<p>Enjolras glanced to the door. “What should I do?”</p>
<p>“Just… keep an eye on him. Try to keep his temperature down and keep giving him fluids,” Combeferre replied, his voice hoarse.</p>
<p>Enjolras nodded, sucking in his lips. He’d never seen Combeferre so emotional before. “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>Combeferre simply nodded in response.</p>
<p>Enjolras sighed before turning and quietly going into the guest room, his heart twisting in his chest as he saw Grantaire’s still frame. He didn’t think it was possible for Grantaire to be paler than he was that morning, but somehow he was, his whole body limp.</p>
<p>Sucking in a breath, he rushed to Grantaire’s side, gently taking his hand in his own. Enjolras could feel the heat radiating off of Grantaire’s body, but his hand was cool and clammy, fingers pliable in his grasp.</p>
<p>“Grantaire?” Enjolras asked softly, watching his face for any sign of consciousness. </p>
<p>But the skeptic’s face was still, the only sign of life being the labored rise and fall of his chest.</p>
<p>Enjolras stared for what felt like an eternity, willing Grantaire’s eyes to flutter open or for him to make even the smallest groan, <em>something</em> to show that he would make it through the night. <em>You woke up for me last night… Do it again tonight</em>, Enjolras willed, <em>please</em>. But Grantaire didn’t move except for the rise and fall of his chest. His breathing was shallow and fast for someone who was asleep, but it was safe to assume that was the cause of the fever.</p>
<p>After a few painful minutes of silence, Enjolras found the cool, damp cloth and wiped away the beads of sweat that had gathered on Grantaire’s forehead along his hairline. Then, after dipping the cloth back in the water, he carefully threaded it behind his neck, just as he’d seen Grantaire do after a boxing match, the one time Enjolras had gone to watch one.</p>
<p>He thought back to that warm, summer day and blushed, shaking his head in embarrassment. He had really gone to see Bahorel and hopefully pick up a few things when it came to fist-fights.</p>
<p>Sure, Enjolras knew how to use a gun, but as the son of a respectable family, he hadn’t learned the first thing about how to defend himself beyond using his words if there wasn’t a firearm present.</p>
<p>But when they’d arrived, his gaze had immediately found Grantaire and he couldn’t pull himself away. </p>
<p>Grantaire was only in his pants and shoes, shirt and vest already discarded as he wound some kind of bandaging around his hand, laughing with another one of the men as he did. Even though it seemed that he hadn’t been in the ring yet, the bare skin of his back glistened with sweat and Enjolras found himself jealous of the dark hair that generously covered Grantaire’s chest. If only Enjolras wasn’t blonde and seemingly unable to grow any amount of chest hair that wasn’t patchy at best.</p>
<p>Then Grantaire had climbed into the ring and Enjolras had lost all sense of time as he watched in awe. Despite being an alcoholic and drunk most of the time, Grantaire was light on his feet, almost dancing around his opponents before striking easily back at them. Clearly he was one of the better boxers there, not that Enjolras needed much convincing when Bahorel had said as much.</p>
<p>After each match, Grantaire would jump out of the ring and find a cool towel to throw behind his neck and over his shoulders, grinning like a madman after each victory and loss alike.</p>
<p>As Enjolras recalled that day and that infectious smile, he began to realize that perhaps that was one of the first times he had truly appreciated Grantaire for who he was. And had perhaps found something more in the skeptic than just an infuriating acquaintance whom he wasn’t sure why he even bothered joining Les Amis.</p>
<p>Now, as Enjolras took Grantaire in, he wished he could go back to that simpler time with Grantaire on his feet and smiling without a care in the world. Distantly, Enjolras wondered what it would even be like to not have a care in the world. Then again, he couldn’t be Enjolras if that were indeed the case.</p>
<p>Combeferre had told Enjolras to keep Grantaire cooled off, but Enjolras couldn’t help but stretch out beside him, almost as if he could take away some of his warmth with his own body. And just as he did the night before, he found Ovid’s Metamorphoses and flipped until he’d found where they had read to the night before.</p>
<p>Enjolras watched Grantaire’s face for a moment longer before looking down at the page and sucking in a breath, beginning to read, “My father Apollo admired Hyacinthus above all others. Forsaking his shrine at Delphi, the navel of the earth, he haunted the unwalled city of Sparta, close to the Eurotas. His arrows and lyre abandoned; his normal pursuits were forgotten…”</p>
<p>He continued reading the story of Apollo and Hyacinthus as told by Orpheus through the words of Ovid, how Apollo put aside being a god in favor of accompanying his lover on hunts and competing with him in different sports. Of course, one unfortunate day, the discus accidentally struck Hyacinthus in the face after Apollo had used his godly strength to throw it, and the tragedy took shape.</p>
<p>“The god went deathly pale as the lad himself and caught his arms as he fell to the ground. To save the life of his friend, he desperately rubbed the body, dabbed at the wound and applied his herbs; but all his medical arts were—were in vain,” Enjolras voice cracked and he realized with a start that he was shaking as he clung to the book. “‘Fading away, Hyacinthus! Cheated of youth’s sweet bloom!’ lamented Apollo. ‘I see your wound, and I see… And I see my guilt,’” Enjolras managed to choke out before snapping the book shut and putting it aside, curling in on himself and hiding his face in his knees.</p>
<p>The grief and guilt that he’d so carefully pushed away now came pouring out of him in waves, tears streaking down his face uncontrollably as he bit back sob after heart-wrenching sob.</p>
<p>Within a moment he felt Courfeyrac and Combeferre on either side of him, wrapping their arms around him and gently murmuring to him, simultaneously encouraging him to let the feelings out and to calm down enough so that he could properly breathe.</p>
<p>“It’s my fault! I—I should have listened to you about the soldiers, Courf, we—we shouldn’t have even had the rally…”</p>
<p>“Shhh,” Courfeyrac cooed softly. “Grantaire was trying to save your life, Enj. Who’s to say that if it hadn’t happened at this rally that it wouldn’t have happened at the next one?”</p>
<p>Enjolras sucked in a breath, gasping between sobs. “I should be the one lying in bed, not him…”</p>
<p>“No, don’t say that,” Courfeyrac murmured. “No one should have been shot. We were being peaceful, those soldiers were wrong.”</p>
<p>Enjolras shook his head. “That doesn’t make things any better.”</p>
<p>“I know, Enj. I know,” Courfeyrac whispered, pulling him into his lap and holding him tightly.</p>
<p>Combeferre rubbed Enjolras’ back for a moment before adjusting how he sat and putting away the book, far from Enjolras’ reach, for which Enjolras was grateful.</p>
<p>A few moments of silence passed before Combeferre gasped beside them, his eyes widening.</p>
<p>Both Enjolras’ and Courfeyrac’s heads shot up and they looked to Combeferre in fear.</p>
<p>“What’s wrong?” Courfeyrac asked as Enjolras’ voice failed him.</p>
<p>Combeferre hesitantly smiled before nodding towards Grantaire. “His eyes… They’re moving.”</p>
<p>Enjolras sat up, pulling himself out of Courfeyrac’s hold as he took in Grantaire’s face. And sure enough, every few moments his face would twitch, his eyes moving beneath his closed eyelids.</p>
<p>“What does that mean?” Enjolras asked quietly, his voice weak and hoarse.</p>
<p>“It means that he’s dreaming,” Combeferre replied, taking Enjolras’ hand and squeezing it tightly. “It means he’s still in there, somewhere.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>As mentioned, I do write happy things. Read some fluff if you need it, in the form of my one-shot "These Small Indulgences"<br/>Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30669305</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. The Shaking Ground of a New Revelation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The night passed all too quickly, with Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac hardly moving from Grantaire’s side as they sought what they hoped was his return to consciousness. Every slightly prolonged breath, every movement of his eyes beneath his eyelids, every twitch of one of his hands drew them back just when they were ready to call it a night.</p>
<p>But when the morning rays of the sun began to peer through the drawn curtains, Grantaire still had not awoken.</p>
<p>Combeferre groaned softly, taking off his glasses and setting them aside before rubbing his face. “We need to sleep.”</p>
<p>“I had hoped…” Enjolras whispered, voice hoarse, before trailing off.</p>
<p>Courfeyrac sighed. “We all did, Enj. He’s… just not ready yet.” He gave a weak smile, dark bags under his eyes. “R isn’t exactly known for his timeliness.”</p>
<p>Enjolras managed a snort, rolling his eyes.</p>
<p>Combeferre got to his feet. “I have classes today. I mean… Well, we all do.”</p>
<p>“I’m not leaving him,” Enjolras said immediately.</p>
<p>“No one is asking you to,” Courfeyrac murmured. “But we are asking if you can manage on your own for a bit?”</p>
<p>Enjolras blinked before nodding. “With some coffee, probably.”</p>
<p>“I’ll go get a pot started,” Courfeyrac replied, stumbling out into the kitchen.</p>
<p>Combeferre put his glasses back on and cleaned up some of his things that had been scattered around the room, putting them back into his bag. “Jehan said they’d drop by later with some things from the market for you.”</p>
<p>“What about you or Jollly?” Enjolras asked, watching hesitantly.</p>
<p>“I’m not sure about Jollly. He’s convinced he’s contracted pneumonia after the storm,” Combeferre muttered. “But I’ll be back by nightfall, if not before then.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Enjolras said before stretching and starting to leave the room before Combeferre put a hand on his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Hey.”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Not having an ounce of emotion aside from anger doesn’t suit you, Enjolras,” Combeferre murmured softly.</p>
<p>Enjolras sucked in his lips and looked away.</p>
<p>Combeferre sighed. “Look at me, Enj.”</p>
<p>He winced before slowly turning back to face Combeferre.</p>
<p>“I know that grief looks different for everyone. And that’s fine. But you can’t just bottle it away and wait for it to pass, just like you’ve done for every other strong feeling you’ve had in your life that you didn’t understand,” Combeferre said gently, searching his friend’s face. “Perhaps you could consider exploring some of those other emotions you have locked away, too.”</p>
<p>Enjolras looked down. “I think we’re both just exhausted. But I won’t shut it out again, like I did,” he whispered.</p>
<p>“Will you ever admit to yourself that you like him as more than just an acquaintance or friend?” Combeferre asked.</p>
<p><em>Not aloud</em>, Enjolras thought to himself, because truth be told, even he wasn’t sure in what capacity he liked Grantaire. All of his self-assurance of who he was seemed to now vanish at the mention of the skeptic. But he did know now, at least, that the world would cease to make sense without Grantaire there to fill a void he didn’t know he had.</p>
<p>Combeferre watched Enjolras for a moment longer before seeming satisfied and leaving the room.</p>
<p>After a short breakfast with little conversation, Combeferre and Courfeyrac gathered their things and left, and Enjolras found himself alone in his flat.</p>
<p>He’d lived alone the entire time he’d been in Paris and hadn’t minded it one bit in the years he’d been there. His books kept him company and his papers and speeches kept his mind from wandering when the silence became to deafening.</p>
<p>But after the almost constant activity of the last two days, the eerie quiet quickly made the hairs on the back of Enjolras’ neck stand on-end, and he found himself pacing from room to room, his body aching with fatigue as he clutched his half-finished and now cold coffee in his hands.</p>
<p>Each time he passed Grantaire, he would pause to study him, brushing his hand against the skeptic’s forehead to feel his temperature or looking again for those little signs that gave them hope. </p>
<p>At one point he sat down beside him on the bed, putting the coffee on the desk as he simply watched. Then he found himself lying down, stretching out languidly and marveling at how comfortable the guest bed was, even with Grantaire lying in the middle of it and taking up most of the space.</p>
<p>Enjolras blinked once. Twice. A third time. And each time the darkness behind his eyelids grew closer and more inviting, pulling him away.</p>
<p>When next Enjolras opened his eyes, he was greeted not by the empty guest room, but by a ruddy-faced boy with dingy blond hair and a mischievous glint in his green eyes.</p>
<p>Enjolras sat up suddenly, the room spinning around him as he fought to gain his bearings. What time was it? How long had he slept? How was Grantaire?</p>
<p>“Grantaire,” Enjolras husked out, looking behind him once he could manage it.</p>
<p>Grantaire was in the same state as when Enjolras had fallen asleep, a touch of color having returned to his face and his chest still rising and falling with each labored breath, but he seemed no closer to waking up than he had been the whole night before.</p>
<p>Enjolras shook his head, turning back towards the intruder in his home and squinting at Gavroche. “How did you get in?”</p>
<p>“Through the window,” Gavroche replied easily, nodding towards the still-open guest room window.</p>
<p>Enjolras tilted his head to the side. “How did you know this was my place?”</p>
<p>“I know everything.”</p>
<p>Enjolras arched a brow.</p>
<p>“Well, most things,” Gavroche conceded.</p>
<p>Enjolras got to his feet and started out of the room. “Come on. You ought not be in here. Risk of infection and all that. Jollly would have a fit.”</p>
<p>“You were in there,” the boy retorted.</p>
<p>Enjolras bit back his response. The free-spirited and unruly child was just as much of a pain at meetings as Grantaire and Enjolras began to realize why the pair were so particularly close.</p>
<p>Then again, if it weren’t for Gavroche, they might not have known the National Guard was coming until far too late, and Grantaire may not have been the only casualty.</p>
<p>“You want something to eat?” Enjolras asked after a moment.</p>
<p>Gavroche immediately nodded, quickly brushing past Enjolras and towards his kitchen, rifling through the cabinets to find something worthy of his “oh-so-refined tastes.”</p>
<p>Enjolras watched him ruin the organization of his kitchen before deciding to simply sit and let him do as he pleased. “Are you alright?”</p>
<p>“I’m not on my sick-bed,” Gavroche replied easily.</p>
<p>Enjolras awkwardly nodded. It was a fair enough answer, he supposed, but didn’t exactly help spur further conversation.</p>
<p>Gavroche found an apple and what was left of some bread before perching himself on top of the counter and starting to eat, not seeming to even notice the tense silence between them.</p>
<p>“Gav,” Enjolras hesitantly tried, the boy’s pet-name foreign on his lips, “what are you doing here?”</p>
<p>Gavroche tilted his head ever-so-slightly to the side. “I’ve come to see my friend. Like everyone else has done.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Enjolras nodded. “How, umm, how did you get away from the rally?”</p>
<p>“Same way I got there.”</p>
<p>Enjolras sighed, unable to find a way to continue this stilted-at-best conversation. </p>
<p>The silence stretched on as Enjolras watched the boy eat nearly every part of the apple that was edible before moving on to the bread. Despite just how scrawny he was, Gavroche didn’t eat as if he were a ravenous beast that had just found a decent meal after a week without. Instead, he ate slowly and methodically, savoring every bite as if it were from the finest cafe in Paris.</p>
<p>“Gavroche, when was the last time you ate?” Enjolras asked.</p>
<p>Gavroche looked up at him, lips pursed thoughtfully. “When was the last time you ate?” he retorted.</p>
<p>“It’s… been at least a day since I had a proper meal,” Enjolras conceded, thinking about the small bit of pastry he had that morning and not even the full bite of soup he’d managed the night before.</p>
<p>Gavroche nodded before focusing back on his food. “It’s been longer than that for Monsieur R.” His voice had grown hollow, and Enjolras could feel the air in the room change almost immediately.</p>
<p>“Yeah, it has been,” Enjolras agreed softly. “I didn’t think to give him anything to eat when he awoke the other night.”</p>
<p>“He has woken up?”</p>
<p>Enjolras sat back, glancing towards the guest room. “Once, that first night. I read to him, to try and keep him distracted from the pain.”</p>
<p>“What did you read to him?” Gavroche asked, brushing off his shirt once he’d finished with the bread.</p>
<p>“Ovid. It’s one of the few books I own that could probably hold his interest without him trying to fight me on every other sentence,” Enjolras softly snorted.</p>
<p>Gavroche nodded. “You know, he’s smarter than you give him credit for. And kinder.”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps if you listened, instead of shouting, you might see it,” Gavroche finished.</p>
<p>Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I will take that advice under consideration.”</p>
<p>Gavroche pulled out a small, dingy rucksack and started digging through it before pulling out two books and passing them to Enjolras. “I got them from his flat. I thought that maybe he’d… want something of his. When he wakes up again.”</p>
<p>Enjolras took the two books, studying the covers. The first was worn and tattered, and he turned it to the side and squinted in an attempt to read the foil-embossed spine. “Greek Tragedies?”</p>
<p>“That’s how Monsieur taught me to read,” Gavroche explained proudly before espousing the plots of the different plays within.</p>
<p>Enjolras blinked, reeling a bit. “Grantaire taught you to read?” <em>I didn’t think you knew how, or if you were even interested</em>, he thought guiltily to himself.</p>
<p>Gavroche grinned. “I told you he’s kinder than you give him credit for.” He plucked the book out of Enjolras’ hands and opened it to a random page before beginning to read, word-for-word, the lines of Oedipus’ Vow.</p>
<p>Enjolras watched him for a moment before shaking his head and looking down at the other book with its plain, black cover. Curious, he opened it, only to be confronted by a sketched image of himself at the Mussain, hands gesturing and mid-speech. “Is this…”</p>
<p>“His sketchbook,” Gavroche finished, passing the Greek Tragedies back to Enjolras. “It was easier to bring that rather than all his paints and canvases.”</p>
<p>Enjolras carefully closed the sketchbook and set Gavroche’s findings aside. “I am sure he will appreciate the gesture once he wakes.”</p>
<p>Gavroche sucked in his lips, eyes darting nervously around the flat. “Is he going to wake up?”</p>
<p>“Are you scared that he won’t?” Enjolras asked gently.</p>
<p>Gavroche balked, though Enjolras could tell, somehow, that the gesture was merely for show. “I’m not some kid. People die everyday.”</p>
<p>“Not the people that take care of you.”</p>
<p>Gavroche glared before sighing. “Maybe a bit scared,” he mumbled.</p>
<p>“Me too,” Enjolras murmured, leading Gavroche back into the room. “Do you want to stay for a while?”</p>
<p>Gavroche shook his head after a moment. “No. I’m a busy man. And you are too. I ought to get going,” he said, eyes fixed on Grantaire.</p>
<p>Enjolras blinked and gave a single nod. “I suppose so. You’re always welcome to visit him, though,” he said, not sure where the words were coming from. “Just… use the door next time, yeah?”</p>
<p>Gavroche was already wedging himself back through the window, a smirk crossing his face. “Where’s the fun in that, Monsieur?”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>Another two days passed and Enjolras only left Grantaire’s side to wash up or entertain his friends when they dropped by. He’d even missed a meeting at the Mussain in favor of reading one of the Greek Tragedies to Grantaire’s sleeping form, squinting at the skeptic’s cramped handwriting in the margins to add context and the rough sketches when there was enough open space for him to have done so.</p>
<p>Grantaire’s fever had lingered the whole time, though not as dangerously high as that first night, and they never had to wait long to see the twitch of his hand or the movement of his eyes. It was these little moments that kept Enjolras and the rest of the amis hoping against hope. Of course only stubborn, skeptical Grantaire could stand at death’s door and knock before growing tired of waiting and deciding to take the scenic route back to the land of the living.</p>
<p>The fifth night after the rally, Enjolras found himself having finished the Greek Tragedies and staring at the sketchbook as he sat beside Grantaire on the bed, debating whether he should finish his final essay for the semester or finally risk another look inside one of Grantaire’s more treasured possessions. </p>
<p>In truth, the essay really was done, and he was ready to turn it in and be rid of it and the class it was for. While interesting, and surely applicable, the study of economies only served to remind him of one of the many, many things wrong with the home he so desperately loved and fought for.</p>
<p>Knowing he would have more time for his studies later, Enjolras instead took the sketchbook, glancing to Grantaire’s sleeping form before flipping open the cover and once again studying the drawing of himself. He flipped to the next page, and then the next, and he was halfway through the sketchbook and realizing that almost every other page had a drawing of him, whether at the cafe or in a square, giving a speech or reading in concentration.</p>
<p>How Grantaire could draw these so exquisitely, capturing Enjolras’ perfect likeness, and still manage a coherent debate was a mystery to the chief, who, despite his lack of artistic ability or appreciation, found himself staring in awe.</p>
<p>So much so, that he didn’t even notice the stirring beside him at first.</p>
<p>“What are you looking at?” a voice husked beside him, weak and slurred.</p>
<p>Enjolras froze, snapping the sketchbook shut before slowly looking towards Grantaire. “W—what?”</p>
<p>“What are you looking at?” Grantaire tried again, eyes slowly fluttering open before slipping back shut.</p>
<p>“Grantaire, I—oh my god!” Enjolras cried, eyes widening. “Are you really awake?”</p>
<p>“Don’t shout,” Grantaire mumbled, his voice finding a bit more strength.</p>
<p>Combeferre came barreling into the room, his twisted face somehow striking a balance between panic and hope. “Is he…?”</p>
<p>Enjolras nodded, scooting aside so that Combeferre could take a proper look.</p>
<p>Combeferre delicately pulled up one of Grantaire’s eyelids, and in response Grantaire weakly waved a hand.</p>
<p>“Stop it, Ferre…”</p>
<p>“Oh my God, he’s actually awake,” Combeferre whispered in awe. </p>
<p>Enjolras nodded, unable to keep the smile from his face.</p>
<p>“Go make him some fresh tea. And get some of the bread, too,” Combeferre added before returning his focus to his patient.</p>
<p>Enjolras left to do as he was told, quietly laughing to himself as he heard Grantaire fighting Combeferre at almost every turn, such as it was. The most Grantaire could do was weakly curse at him or tell him to stop.</p>
<p>“Think you can sit up and have something to eat?” Combeferre asked as Enjolras returned with a warm mug of tea and some fresh bread Jehan had brought from the market earlier that day.</p>
<p>Grantaire softly groaned. “Will you stop prodding at me if I do?”</p>
<p>“For now, at least,” Combeferre negotiated.</p>
<p>Grantaire nodded. “Alright then.” With Combeferre’s help, he pressed himself up and leaned back against the pillows, his eyes opening and managing to stay open for more than a few seconds.</p>
<p>Enjolras sat back down beside him, helping him have a sip of the tea before breaking off mouth-fulls of bread for Grantaire to nibble on as Combeferre left the room to wash up and get a new bandage.</p>
<p>“How are you feeling?” Enjolras asked softly as he watched Grantaire.</p>
<p>Grantaire softly sighed, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Empty.”</p>
<p>Enjolras nodded. “It’s… a little more than four days after the rally. I would be surprised if you didn’t feel empty.”</p>
<p>“Fair,” Grantaire inclined his head slightly. “I’m… surprised you’re here,” he said after a moment, not meeting Enjolras’ eyes.</p>
<p>“Well, I do live here,” Enjolras tried.</p>
<p>Grantaire managed a weak smile before closing his eyes.</p>
<p>Enjolras sighed. “I’m, well, I guess I’m surprised, too. A lot has happened in the last few days.”</p>
<p>Grantaire opened an eye. “I wouldn’t expect your life to stop on my behalf, Apollo.”</p>
<p>“No, it—Not like that,” Enjolras replied quickly, shaking his head. “I’ve been here, the whole time. Well, most of the whole time.”</p>
<p>Grantaire sighed. “You don’t have to lie to spare my feelings, Enjolras. The Revolution must go on and all that…”</p>
<p>“Will you let me speak?” Enjolras asked, exasperation lacing his voice.</p>
<p>Grantaire relented, opening his eyes again and actually looking at Enjolras. </p>
<p>“I <em>do</em> care about you, Grantaire. You… well, you do infuriate me, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t my—my friend,” Enjolras murmured, find it hard to meet Grantaire’s gaze. “The thought of losing you, I—” his voice caught as he sucked in a breath. “My world doesn’t make sense without you in it, R.”</p>
<p>Grantaire’s face, which had been blank and stoic, now twitched, expression crossing into confusion. “Are you… drunk? When was the last time you slept?”</p>
<p>Enjolras stood, frustration spilling over and negating whatever sense of a filter he had left. “Dammit, Grantaire, don’t be so difficult! I’m trying to share how much you mean to me and even fresh practiclly from the grave, all you can do is throw it back in my face?”</p>
<p>Combeferre stepped back into the room about then, resting a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Enj, I think you should get some air,” he murmured gently.</p>
<p>Grantaire was staring at Enjolras, expression unreadable.</p>
<p>Enjolras felt his lip quiver, a burning sensation stinging just behind his eyes. “Grantaire, I—I think I might love you…”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. The Stirring of a Foreign Feeling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Grantaire, I—I think I might love you…”</p><p>Grantaire stared as the room fell silent, Enjolras flushing bright red while Combeferre’s hand hovered just above his shoulder, his face twisting in confusion.</p><p>“I—I love you too,” Grantaire managed after opening and closing his mouth a few times. His voice was impossibly quiet as he spoke, face paling almost as if the revelation of their feelings had brought his fever back in full force.</p><p>Neither man could look at the other, unprepared for what they might find when they looked in each other’s eyes. Would it be pity? Proper affection? Disgust or perhaps even something worse?</p><p>Grantaire sucked in a breath. “Do you mean it?”</p><p>Enjolras risked a fleeting glance at Grantaire’s face before looking back down at his hand on the bed. “Mean what?”</p><p>“What you said, that you may love me,” Grantaire replied.</p><p>Enjolras looked up at him, keeping his voice carefully even. “I—I think so? I feel something. I don’t know how to describe it, but I suppose it is some kind of affection.” For all the emotion Enjolras had just poured out, he seemed to have swung to the completely opposite end of the spectrum, now almost scientific and removed from his thoughts, emotions, and feelings.</p><p>Combeferre dropped his hand to his side, rolling his eyes in exasperation. “Enj.”</p><p>“Well, I—I’m not going to lie to him! I don’t even know what I’m feeling! What does love even feel like?” Enjolras looked between them both, though unable to meet either of their eyes.</p><p>Grantaire cracked a weak smile. “Enjolras, look at me,” he said gently.</p><p>Enjolras hesitantly glanced up at him, expecting Grantaire to mock him. But instead, in his blue eyes he found warmth and life and something else that stirred at something within Enjolras, the same something that had been coloring almost his every thought towards the skeptic in the last few days.</p><p>“I’m glad that you’re here. And I—I mean it,” Grantaire murmured.</p><p>Combeferre set down the fresh bandage, clearing his throat. “I, umm, I can give you both some space…” he awkwardly trailed off.</p><p>Enjolras quickly shook his head. “N—no, you’re right, I should get some fresh air,” he managed, backing away. “And the others, they’ll want to know as soon as possible.”</p><p>Grantaire’s face fell as he watched Enjolras, trying not to feel hurt at his sudden want to flee his presence.</p><p>“No, you can’t leave yet if you are indeed going to get some air,” Combeferre chided, deciding against forcing the present awkwardness any further. “We still need to change his bandages and clean the wound, and I’ll need your help.”</p><p>Enjolras worked his jaw for a moment before nodding, slowly walking towards the bed and hesitantly sitting beside Grantaire. Despite the past few days of him practically curling up as close as humanly possible to Grantaire, sitting anywhere near him now felt stilted and all-too-intimate, especially considering the conversation they’d just had.</p><p>“Just because he’s awake doesn’t mean he’s going to bite you, Enjolras,” Combeferre said, rolling his eyes as he sat down on Grantaire’s other side and set out his things.</p><p>“Right,” Enjolras managed before scooting a bit closer and trying to ignore the hurt on Grantaire’s face.</p><p>As Grantaire started to sit up, Enjolras’ arm wrapped around his back for support, he groaned, hand flying to his side. “Something’s wrong…”</p><p>“Well, you were shot. I can’t imagine it feels good,” Enjolras murmured, his voice gentle despite the fact that he felt almost like a cornered animal.</p><p>Grantaire shook his head. “No, it—it feels like something is cutting?” He shifted before whining quietly, closing his eyes and turning his head into Enjolras’ chest as he attempted to ignore the hot, shooting pain in his abdomen. It felt almost as if he was being shot all over again each time he took in a breath.</p><p>Combefere pursed his lips before quickly undoing the bandage and looking at the wound. “It doesn’t look infected, at least, not how it was,” he murmured, methodically probing around the stitches while watching Grantaire’s face.</p><p>“Please stop,” Grantaire groaned, eyes squeezed shut.</p><p>Combeferre sighed, moving to instead feel around his patient’s belly. “Where is the pain? Is it more at the surface? Or does it feel deeper?”</p><p>Grantaire sucked in a sharp breath as Combeferre pressed on a particular spot. “D—deeper. Right there, please don’t—” He cut himself off with a yelp as Combeferre pressed a bit harder on the spot</p><p>Enjolras’ hold on Grantaire tightened and he found himself glaring at Combeferre, immediately protective. “Stop, you’re hurting him.”</p><p>“I need to figure out what it is, whether that is a piece of the bullet or perhaps a bone fragment or something else,”</p><p>Combeferre explained, but relented after a moment. “Do Jollly and Bossuet still have the original fragment I pulled out?”</p><p>Enjolras weakly shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I would hope so.”</p><p>Combeferre nodded, starting to clean the wound. “When you step out, I want you to go to them and ask them for it. I have the second piece we pulled out the other day, but I wonder if perhaps there’s more that I missed that is lodged somewhere deeper.”</p><p>Grantaire grit his teeth, one hand clutched on Enjolras’ shirt, the fabric balled in his hand in an attempt to distract from the stinging of Combeferre cleaning him up.</p><p>Enjolras carefully rested his head over Grantaire’s, his one free hand gently combing his fingers through the skeptic’s unruly curls, just as his own mother had done when he was little and had been in need of comfort. Enjolras’ thoughts would go from still and peaceful to racing and erratic, back and forth as he tried to make sense of what he felt towards Grantaire and how he felt in this moment.</p><p>With Grantaire’s face tucked against his shoulder, his warm breath against his collarbone, the way he held to Enjolras as if he were a lifeline, Enjolras felt as if this was… right. Or, at least, it didn’t feel wrong. But it also didn’t feel like he assumed it would if it were Courfeyrac or Jehan or any of the others in Grantaire’s position. He didn’t think he would feel so protective towards them, not how he felt in this moment towards Grantaire. Each twist of his expression, each hitched breath, each tremor of his body made Enjolras want to reach across and push Combeferre away before shielding Grantaire from any more of his ministrations. At least he knew better than to actually follow through; Combeferre <em>did</em> know what he was doing, after all.</p><p>After a few more minutes, Combeferre sat back and looked to Enjolras. “Let’s get the bandage back on him and let him rest up some. I’m sure the others will be here sooner than we’d like once they know.”</p><p>Enjolras nodded before helping Combeferre bandage the wound once more, letting Grantaire lay back against the pillows once they had finished.</p><p>“You alright?” Enjolras asked hesitantly, noticing Grantaire’s squeezed shut eyes and pained expression.</p><p>Grantaire let out a shaking breath, now gripping the bed sheet beneath him. “It—it hurts,” he managed, his voice breaking.</p><p>Enjolras looked away, a hole opening up in his chest almost as if he could feel Grantaire’s pain. “Is there anything you can do, Ferre?”</p><p>Combeferre pursed his lips. “Well, you’re going to see Jollly anyways. Ask him to help you find some laudanum for Grantaire’s pain.” He sighed. “I don’t want to leave him all alone.”</p><p>“Right,” Enjolras nodded before glancing out the window.</p><p>Darkness had just fallen, and no doubt the others would already be at the cafe and probably in a heated debate. Part of him felt guilty for missing the meetings, but somehow, he knew he’d feel even guiltier if he had gone the past few nights instead of staying and watching over Grantaire.</p><p>“I’ll be back soon. And probably with Courf or Jollly in tow,” Enjolras murmured, taking one last look at Grantaire before making his way out of the flat and towards the Mussain.</p><p>Enjolras had spent so much time in his flat the last few days that the streets of Paris felt almost foreign to him. At the very least, they did feel a bit different. But his feet easily carried him to the cafe, his muscle memory kicking in as his mind repeated the conversation of the last hour.</p><p>When he climbed the stairs and entered the back room, all eyes turned to him. Half the group look startled, terrified of the news Enjolras might be bringing about their friend. The other half looked hopeful, desperately clinging to any kind of good word he might share.</p><p>Enjolras let out a breath as he sat down at his usual seat with Courfeyrac beside him.</p><p>“Well?” Bossuet asked, hesitant.</p><p>“R’s awake,” Enjolras breathed, looking between his friends.</p><p>There was a collective sigh as people began murmuring to themselves, celebrating the fact that it seemed like their friend had pulled through the worst of his injury.</p><p>“Is he coherent?” Jollly asked. “Like, speaking and making sense?”</p><p>Enjolras nodded. “Yeah, he’s lucid enough. In a lot of pain, though.”</p><p>“He was shot in the side. I can’t imagine it feels like a kiss of life,” Bahorel snorted, rolling his eyes.</p><p>Enjolras rolled his eyes in return. “Well, yes, but…” he trailed off, looking back to Jollly. “Do you still have that one piece of the bullet?”</p><p>Jollly nodded. “Bossuet’s got it. Why?”</p><p>“Well, I’m sure Courf told you all that Ferre got a second piece out the other day. But he thinks there might be more,” Enjolras explained. “He wants to compare what he found to what you have, see if that is indeed the case.”</p><p>Bossuet pulled the bullet out of his pocket and passed it over to Enjolrs. “Of course. Anything to help R.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Enjolras tiredly smiled.</p><p>Feuilly sat back in his chair. “Speaking of, what else can we do to help him out? Does he… even want visitors right now?”</p><p>“I don’t know. He could barely keep his eyes open longer than a minute or two,” Enjolras murmured. “Ferre wanted me to get some laudanum too, suggested you could help with that, Jollly?”</p><p>Jollly nodded. “Of course. But it doesn’t come cheap, at least not for the good stuff that would help with the pain and not kill him.”</p><p>“We can all contribute some to help out,” Courfeyrac said firmly.</p><p>Enjolras shook his head, standing suddenly. “No, I’ll pay for it.”</p><p>Courfeyrac frowned, sensing something wasn’t quite right. “You sure, Enj?”</p><p>Enjolras nodded after a moment. “Yes, I’m sure. I can easily afford it. And you all should keep your money for the things that you need.”</p><p>Courfeyrac watched him for a few tense seconds before relenting. “Alright. Maybe there’s some other way we can help.”</p><p>“Gavroche,” Enjolras said quietly, not even entirely sure where the thought came from.</p><p>Feuilly pursed his lips. “What of him?”</p><p>“I think R usually helps him with meals and whatnot. We should… maybe get him something to eat for the next few days,” Enjolras explained.</p><p>Jehan nodded knowingly. “Yes, that sounds like a good idea. I’m sure the boy could use something good to eat. At the very least, some proper food and not whatever he finds or steals.” They looked to Bahorel. “Why don’t we go tomorrow morning and get him something?”</p><p>Bahorel nodded. “Sounds like a plan to me.”</p><p>The rest of the amis joined in, making plans for who would help feed Gavroche when and talking about making a schedule for people to visit Grantaire when he was ready for visitors. Enjolras fell heavily back into his seat, rubbing his face as he began to acknowledge just how properly exhausted he was.</p><p>Courfeyrac watched their friends before sighing and leaning towards Enjolras. “Are you alright?”</p><p>“It’s just been a long day,” Enjolras mumbled.</p><p>“Long days don’t normally make you this… out of it,” Courfeyrac murmured.</p><p>Enjolras simply shrugged. “Well maybe this is a particularly long day.”</p><p>Courfeyrac simply nodded. “I suppose so. Were you in the room, when he woke up?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“What happened?” Courfeyrac pressed.</p><p>Enjolras sighed, leaning back in his seat as he fought down the blush creeping across his cheeks. “I was flipping through his sketchbook, and he asked what I was looking at. I, well, I shouted because I was both stunned and excited. He didn’t exactly care for that. But Ferre came in and checked on him, we helped him eat…”</p><p>“And…?”</p><p>Enjolras squinted at Courfeyrac, annoyed that the man always seemed to know when he was hiding something. “And we talked.”</p><p>“Did you tell him how you felt?” Courfeyrac asked gently.</p><p>Enjolras’ eyes darted around the room, thankful that their friends were absorbed in debating the visiting schedule for who would get to see Grantaire when, and not paying any mind to him or Courfeyrac. “I… I guess? I tried. R kept interrupting and words just kind of… happened.”</p><p>“Words happened?” Courfeyrac snorted. "Not exactly your most eloquent explanation."</p><p>“Shut up,” Enjolras mumbled in response.</p><p>Courfeyrac held up his hands, softly chuckling. “Alright, fine, so I’m assuming these words were positive and not of the “I hate your guts” variety?”</p><p>Enjolras glanced around again before leaning closer to Courfeyrac. “I told him that I thought that I loved him.”</p><p>Courfeyrac blinked, lips pursed, before he smiled warmly. “Enj, that… That’s wonderful. What did he say?”</p><p>“That he loved me too,” Enjolras whispered.</p><p>Courfeyrac nodded. “And what happened next?”</p><p>“I panicked.”</p><p>Courfeyrac sucked in his lips, biting back a smirk. “I see. So you fled?”</p><p>“What was I supposed to do?”</p><p>“Stay?” Courfeyrac suggested before sighing. “You can’t just tell someone you love them and then pop off like nothing even happened.”</p><p>Enjolras looked down. “What if I’m not sure?”</p><p>“Not sure about what?” Courfeyrac asked thoughtfully.</p><p>“What if I’m not sure if I love him?” Enjolras looked up at his friend. “Or not sure if what I’m feeling is even love to begin with?”</p><p>Courfeyrac pursed his lips, thinking for a few moments. “Well, have you ever felt love before, in a romantic sense?”</p><p>Enjolras shook his head.</p><p>“And have you ever felt how you feel towards Grantaire towards anyone else?”</p><p>“Well, no,” Enjolras stuttered.</p><p>Courfeyrac grinned, his eyes warm. “Then I think you have your answer. You do at least feel some kind of romantic affection towards him.” He paused before adding, “And that’s a good thing, Enjolras.”</p><p>Enjolras flushed before taking his friend’s coffee and downing what was left in the cup. “Sure, fine, whatever. But what do I do about it?”</p><p>“Well, that’s up to you,” Courfeyrac replied. “I’d recommend nurturing it, but that’s me, and I’m not you.” He snatched his coffee cup back before looking up as Jehan approached them.</p><p>Jehan smiled slightly, taking a seat. “Hope I’m not interrupting?”</p><p>“Not at all,” Enjolras replied quickly, glad for the distraction.</p><p>Jehan’s smile widened before they sighed. “Have you checked your mail yet today?”</p><p>Enjolras shook his head. “Not yet. Why?”</p><p>“I got a letter from my parents. It seems that they are going to be spending the Christmas holiday with your family and they have… invited me to join them,” Jehan replied, holding up the envelope in question.</p><p>Enjolras made a sour face. “At least they invited you instead of demanded you.”</p><p>“Well, the wording sounded far closer to a demand than it didn’t. A carriage to take us there will be at your flat on the twentieth,” Jehan sighed.</p><p>“How thoughtful,” Enjolras mumbled.</p><p>Courfeyrac snorted. “Hey, at least you have one ally there with you. And I know you’ve been wanting to raid your father’s study for new reading material.”</p><p>Enjolras turned to face Courfeyrac, squinting at him. “Why do you need to make good points?”</p><p>“Someone has to when you’re being unreasonable.” Courfeyrac shrugged. “Besides, it’s just a week out of the city, Enjolras. And you could use a vacation.”</p><p>Jehan laughed, the sound almost a bit melodic. “I don’t know that spending any length of time at the Enjolras estate could be considered a vacation.” They shook their head before getting up. “I should be heading home, though. I’ll see you both tomorrow?”</p><p>Enjolras nodded. “Thank you for letting me know, Jehan.”</p><p>“Of course.” They nodded before leaving.</p><p>The others began filing out and Jollly gave Enjolras a bottle with a single dose of laudanum in it to hold Grantaire over until they could go shopping for more in the morning. And all too soon, Enjolras found himself back at his flat with Courfeyrac and Combeferre, the trio chatting about the events of the meeting before going to give Grantaire his medicine.</p><p>Grantaire hardly spoke a word, eyes mostly closed as Courfeyrac tried to talk to him. But all he could manage to get out were yes and no answers, along with the occasional moan or whine of pain.</p><p>Combeferre sighed after a few more tedious minutes of attempted conversation. “Leave him be, Courf. He needs rest, not to be interrogated.”</p><p>Courfeyrac sucked in his lips before nodding. “Alright, yeah.” He rested a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. “Try and get some sleep, and shout if you need us. We’ll be just outside,” he murmured before leaving the room.</p><p>But Enjolras felt rooted to the spot, heart twisting in his chest. This wasn’t the Grantaire he knew and (maybe) loved.</p><p>Even in the midst of getting beat up in a boxing match, Grantaire would grin and stand strong and find a way to laugh even while his nose was dripping with blood. But now he was weak, unable to even stand or sit up without groaning in pain. He didn’t even seem capable of smiling. Once again Enjolras could feel that hole opening up in his chest, painfully pulling at his breath.</p><p>“You’re still here…” Grantaire whispered.</p><p>Enjolras nodded. “Do you… want me to leave?”</p><p>“No,” Grantaire replied quietly. “Can you… talk, though?”</p><p>Enjolras weakly snorted. “Do you want me to lecture you on the merits of the Social Contract?”</p><p>“Maybe you should stay silent then,” Grantaire replied, the hint of a weak smile pulling at the corners of his lips.<br/>Enjolras’ heart warmed ever so slightly at the sight. “No, I won’t put you through that. You’re supposed to be resting, not debating me.”</p><p>“I’m not even sure I could string together a proper argument,” Grantaire mumbled.</p><p>Enjolras softly sighed, shifting. “Do you want me to read to you?”</p><p>“Maybe later,” Grantaire managed before opening his eyes and looking to Enjolras. His blue eyes were glassy again, his gaze unfocused. “I’m sorry if I… if I made you feel uncomfortable earlier.”</p><p>Enjolras frowned. “When? While Combeferre was changing your bandage?”</p><p>“Y—yeah,” Grantaire nodded.</p><p>Enjolras shook his head. “You didn’t. Honestly Ferre was making me more uncomfortable with how much pain you seemed like you were in,” he murmured.</p><p>“I know he’s just trying to help,” Grantaire whispered.</p><p>Enjolras nodded. “How are you feeling now, with the medicine?”</p><p>“A bit drunk. It’s taken some of the edge off, I think,” Grantaire replied quietly, his eyes slipping shut once more.</p><p>“What about you?”</p><p>“How… am I feeling?” Enjolras paused before starting to pace, unable to keep still. “I don’t know. I’m feeling a lot of things, I think.”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>Enjolras ran a hand through his hair. “Confused? Frustrated? Upset? I… You’re supposed to be debating me to kingdom come or—or at a boxing match or taking care of Gavroche, but instead you’re here and you can barely move. And it hurts to see you like that. It hurts almost as much as if I had been the one shot and not you, but worse, because I <em>should</em> have been the one to take the bullet. But you did it because you… you—”</p><p>“Because I love you,” Grantaire mumbled.</p><p>“Yeah,” Enjolras breathed. “Yeah, I guess so. And Ferre and Courf think I have some kind of feelings for you. I guess I do, but I wouldn’t know what they are. The only thing I’ve ever loved is my country, and you can’t be romantically involved with a <em>country</em>.” He rolled his eyes at the absurdity. “But I can’t deny that I feel differently for you than I’ve felt towards anyone else. At first I thought it was just… extreme frustration.</p><p>“I mean, you would hardly let me get one sentence out before berating me for my supposed naivety or explaining in detail how my every plan wouldn’t work. <em>Of course</em> my thoughts were consumed with you and proving you wrong.” Enjolras was pacing the room at the foot of the bed, alternating between wringing his hands or gesturing wildly. “But it turned into something different. And I—I was so <em>scared</em> when I saw that soldier hauling your body away. Thank the heavens for Courf and his quick thinking. And Bahorel, too. Otherwise you—you…” he trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose.</p><p>“God, Grantaire, what am I supposed to do? I’m supposed to be the leader, obsessed with his goal, and I couldn’t even be bothered to go to meetings this week for the fear that if something would happen… if you passed…” He sucked in a breath, staggering and leaning against the wall. “I didn’t want you to be alone. And I didn’t want for you to think that I—that I hated you. Or thought that my time was better spent away from you. Because I don’t hate you, and I don’t think that.” He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the tears. “I didn’t realized until this week how much that I need you, Grantaire.”</p><p>The room fell silent, Enjolras slowly opening his eyes to look to Grantaire, waiting for some kind of response. He wouldn’t have even cared if it was to pick apart his every statement, he just desperately wanted to hear Grantaire’s voice.</p><p>But instead he was greeted with a soft snore, Grantaire’s head lolling a bit to the side as he peacefully slept.</p><p>Enjolras weakly snorted, wiping away the tears that had unwittingly started streaking down his face before sitting down beside the skeptic. Grantaire’s face, which had previously been twisted with pain, his jaw clenched, was now almost serene.</p><p>Extinguishing the lamp, Enjolras curled up beside Grantaire as he had the last few nights, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. “I did mean it, R,” he whispered, in an hours-too-late response to his question. “I do think I love you. And… maybe I don’t even think it, and I just do.” He closed his eyes and pressed a kiss to Grantaire’s forehead, just at his hairline, as he had seen Combeferre do to Courfeyrac and vice versa, a chaste gesture that somehow conveyed more affection than words could possibly encapsulate.</p><p>And Grantaire, though perfectly asleep, seemed to settle that much further, his head turning to rest against Enjolras’ shoulder.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The Wedge Between the Flames</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The "honey-moon" period does not last long between these two, my friends.</p>
<p>Content warnings for descriptions of panic attacks and traumatic injury/blood.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Whereas the previous few days had been filled with waiting and watching, the next few were a flurry of activity. With the laudanum there to help with the pain, Grantaire found it easier to move around and sit up, though if he twisted a certain way or breathed too deeply, he could feel the biting pain in his side, sharper than the dull ache that the wound had started to feel as the days wore on.</p>
<p>Combeferre had studied the two pieces of the bullet they’d found and decided that there was indeed a third fragment still somewhere within Grantaire, and was probably the source of the sharp pains in his abdomen. But he didn’t feel comfortable putting</p>
<p>Grantaire through yet another surgery or confident in his abilities to retrieve the missing piece that may have burrowed deeper with the passing days. They would have to wait for Grantaire to heal and get stronger before even attempting to convince a surgeon to help them get it out, and hopefully for a relatively reasonable price.</p>
<p>But there were good things that happened, too.</p>
<p>Neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac continued to press on Enjolras’ feelings towards Grantaire, sensing some kind of shift between them after that first night when he had awoken. Grantaire himself didn’t even press Enjolras, but he was perhaps a bit more clingy and definitely less agitating than normal.</p>
<p>Oftentimes he would ask Enjolras to read to him, whether it was his essays or speeches as he wrote or the books and papers he was researching, even things Grantaire would normally find to be either dull or worthy of a hotly contested debate. Once he could manage to stand and walk around (though often not for great lengths of time), Grantaire would follow Enjolras around the small apartment, not wanting to stray even as far as a room over from where Enjolras was.</p>
<p>While there were plenty of visitors during the day, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had decided to return to their own homes once Grantaire was stable, opting to sleep in their own beds and give Enjolras and Grantaire some space. The first night they had tried to sleep in separate rooms, Enjolras more than a bit embarrassed at how he had grown used to Grantaire’s constant warmth beside him. But Enjolras hadn’t even managed to reach his bed, still studying at the table in the kitchen when he heard Grantaire emerge and stumble to him, in pain and barely lucid. They curled up together in Enjolras’ larger bed, and that had been the end of their attempts to sleep separately.</p>
<p>During the day, Enjolras returned to his classes, turning in final papers and taking exams, while Grantaire would explore the flat to his heart’s content or play games with Gavroche, who often came for a warm place to stay out of the December chill for a few hours and the chance to be with Grantaire or get some food. Or both.</p>
<p>On the third afternoon after he had awoken, Grantaire found the letter Enjolras’ parents had sent requesting his presence for the Christmas holiday, and nearly spat the tea that he had been drinking.</p>
<p>When Enjolras returned, Grantaire could barely hold down the devious smirk that threatened to cross his face. “How was class?”</p>
<p>Enjolras shrugged. “Uneventful. I turned in my paper and debated with a Bonapartist.”</p>
<p>“Pontmercy being a problem again?” Grantaire snorted.</p>
<p>“When is he not?” Enjolras retorted before he softly chuckled. “Surprisingly no, this was a different Bonapartist. Though just as childish and naive.”</p>
<p>“Hmmm,” Grantaire hummed before holding up the letter. “What is this?”</p>
<p>Enjolras was looking at a book, waving his hand. “What is what?”</p>
<p>Grantaire’s lip twitched, enjoying the sight of seeing Enjolras so closely and without them shouting at each other. The past few days had been such a stark contrast to the last year that Grantaire was still almost certain that he was dreaming the whole scenario and still in some feverish, passed-out state.</p>
<p>“What is what, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked again, looking up at Grantaire with a mixed expression of exasperation and affection.</p>
<p>Grantaire would never tire of seeing that face.</p>
<p>“This letter, addressed to one <em>Louis</em> Enjolras.”</p>
<p>Enjolras’ eyes flashed as his cheeks reddened and he snatched the envelope away. “Grantaire, I didn’t say you could go snooping through my mail!”</p>
<p>“I didn’t,” Grantaire replied. “It was sitting on top of the stack at the table and I asked what it was. Haven’t even looked inside.” He smirked slightly. “Louis?”</p>
<p>Enjolras’ lips curled at a sneer. “Don’t call me that.”</p>
<p>“Never would, it doesn’t suit you, Apollo,” Grantaire waved a hand. “But is that truly your name?”</p>
<p>Enjolras sighed, tucking the letter into his book. “Unfortunately.”</p>
<p>Grantaire slowly nodded. “So the letter was from your parents?”</p>
<p>“Yes, they have demanded that I go to their estate with Jehan for Christmas,” Enjolras said matter-of-factly, shaking his head.</p>
<p>“Careful not to sound so enthused, I’m sure they could hear you all the way in… wherever it is they are,” Grantaire softly chuckled.</p>
<p>Enjolras simply rolled his eyes. “Chartres.”</p>
<p>Grantaire paused. “Chartres, like the Cathedral Notre Dame de Chartres?”</p>
<p>“Yes, what of it?” Enjolras asked.</p>
<p>Grantaire smiled slightly. “You’re telling me you grew up in the shadow of the cathedral and never bothered to even look at it? Or appreciate it?”</p>
<p>“It was, and still is, owned by the church and the monarchy. Besides, they didn’t hold services there when I was little,” Enjolras replied, shaking his head.</p>
<p>Grantaire shook his head, leaning back in his chair. “What does it look like?”</p>
<p>Enjolras squinted, a brow arched. “Don’t tell me you’re suddenly some religious type. You never struck me as that, Grantaire.”</p>
<p>“Hardly,” he scoffed, “say what you will about religion, and I have little love for it, but there is no denying that they do know how to choose architects and artists, just as well as the monarchs, though I know you’ll hate me saying so.”</p>
<p>Enjolras’ lip curled at a sneer before sighing. “I suppose there was some… beauty to be found in the cathedral, though you know I have little care for such things.”</p>
<p>“Describe it to me, everything you remember,” Grantaire urged.</p>
<p>“It’s… a church,” Enjolras replied helpfully. “A bit like the Notre Dame here, though in far better condition, as I understand.”</p>
<p>“You’re hopeless.”</p>
<p>Enjolras crossed his arms, letter still clutched in one hand. “Well, I apologize that I was too busy devising how best to help the people of France rather than appreciating ostentatious Gothic cathedrals on your behalf.” Though his words were severe, and his tone a touch harsh, he smiled good-naturedly and with a hint of amusement in his gaze.</p>
<p>Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, do your best to appreciate it for me when you go for Christmas, yeah? Or is that too much to ask of you, <em>my liege.</em>” He mockingly bowed his head.</p>
<p>“Grantaire!” Enjolras cried in disdain, all warmth gone.</p>
<p>“I’m teasing!” Grantaire snickered.</p>
<p>Enjolras threw his hands up in frustration. “Well don’t! It’s—Stop laughing!”</p>
<p>“Alright, alright, I’ll stop,” Grantaire relented, biting back his laughter as best he could. “You have to admit to the irony of your first name, though. A man wanting revolution sharing the same first name as the very one he is trying to overthrow.”</p>
<p>Enjolras sighed, setting the letter down. “I suppose. But R…”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“For heaven’s sake, don’t tell a soul,” Enjolras whispered, fixing a pleading gaze on Grantaire.</p>
<p>Grantaire wanted to reach out and stroke his cheek, and perhaps do something more, but resisted the urge and kept his hands in his lap. “I won’t breathe a word of it.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br/>True to his promise, Grantaire didn’t even so much as tease Enjolras about the unfortunate truth of his first name, simply pretending he’d never learned of it in the first place.</p>
<p>He did, however, continue to ask Enjolras more questions about his family’s estate in Chartres, and about Chartres in general. Enjolras, oftentimes, was rescued from the embarrassing task of attempting to relate his garish childhood by the visit of one of their other friends, usually Courfeyrac or Combeferre. The former was happy to engage in conversation and pick Grantaire’s brain for a new cafe for him to try out in town, while the latter would check Grantaire’s wound and make sure it was still healing.</p>
<p>A week had dragged by, and Grantaire still didn’t feel confident in his energy levels or pain tolerance (despite the fact that he had a very high pain tolerance) enough to make it back to his own flat. Enjolras, though he couldn’t bring Grantaire with him to his estate on account of his very capricious and high-strung parents, had offered to let Grantaire stay in his flat and continue recovering, with Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and the other Amis coming to check on him.</p>
<p>But whenever Enjolras was in class and Gavroche or one of the other Amis wasn’t there to help keep him company, Grantaire felt petrified by loneliness and anxiety. The relative silence gave his mind all-too-much space to think and imagine how the events of the rally might have played out very differently.</p>
<p>It was the day before the carriage was due to arrive at Enjolras’ flat, and Grantaire found himself sketching at the table, hoping that the movement of his pencil would be enough to distract his quickly fraying nerves.<br/>Outside it was once again pouring rain, and try as he might, Grantaire’s mind couldn’t shake away the rally. Even his hand wasn’t agreeing, as he sketched out an image of Enjolras standing on the platform, his hand up as he spoke and tied-back curls weighed down by the rain.</p>
<p>In a flash, the darkened apartment crumbled away around him and Grantaire was back in that square, the rain pouring down around them and Enjolras petrified on the platform as they all stared down the guardsmen that had come to disperse them.</p>
<p>Just as it had that day, the scene played out in slow motion, except now Grantaire could recall every exquisitely painful detail.</p>
<p>The captain raised his pistol, taking aim right at Enjolras, who still hadn’t moved. Courfeyrac was shouting, his words drowned out by the rain and a ringing in Grantaire’s ears. The captain flinched and Grantaire jumped just as the gunshot sounded off.</p>
<p>But this time, he didn’t feel the bite of the iron in his side or the heat of his own blood seeping over his skin.</p>
<p>And looking down, he realized why.</p>
<p>Enjolras’ icy blue eyes were glassy, fixed on Grantaire’s face as if it were the only thing in the world. His hands, which had been attempting to staunch the blood practically pouring out from the wound in his belly, now gripped Grantaire’s shirt, clinging to him as a life line.</p>
<p>“No—no, Enj…” Grantaire gasped, pressing his own hands over the wound. “Enjolras, just… Just stay awake, breathe, say something!”</p>
<p>Enjolras’ lips tried to form words, but no sounds came out. His whole body trembled beneath Grantaire, but the rise and fall of his chest was slowing and growing shallower with each and every breath.</p>
<p>“Don’t leave,” Grantaire choked out, pressing harder against the wound. But hot, sticky blood gushed over his hands, seeping through the cracks between his fingers and staining his skin, sinking into his flesh like a burn. It was too much, puddling all around them. How could a person’s body even hold this much? </p>
<p>Enjolras’ eyelids fluttered as his hands twisted into Grantaire’s shirt, pulling him down, closer, until Grantaire was only aware of the slowing beat of his heart.</p>
<p>And then silence.</p>
<p>With a start, Grantaire shot out of his chair and stumbled backwards, back in Enjolras’ flat.</p>
<p>His chest heaved, shaking with the effort of trying to take a full breath and hang onto it longer than a second. His side screamed at him in pain and his every nerve felt as though it were on fire while the sweat on his skin seemed to turn to ice.</p>
<p>The world spun around him, and it was all he could do to make it to Enjolras’ room and collapse on his bed, a hand clutching tightly in the well-worn yet soft blanket that had yet to be set that day. The scent of lavender mixed with sage and a hint of vanilla cut through the noise of Grantaire’s vision, and he found himself breathing slower just to catch more of the scent of Enjolras’ ridiculous and yet comfortingly perfumed soap that clung to the sheets where he slept.</p>
<p>Grantaire wasn’t sure how long he laid there, collapsed on the bed and clinging to the echoes of Enjolras that the flat held. Stacks of disheveled papers on every flat surface, a red waistcoat draped over the back of a chair, the discarded brush he used in the mornings to tame his unruly curls. These things were both sources of comfort and triggers for dark thoughts that Grantaire couldn’t shake, pulling him further away from any semblance of rationality. </p>
<p>Grantaire found himself desperately needing a drink or another dose of laudanum.</p>
<p>But even more desperately, he needed Enjolras to come home and convince him that what he had seen was merely his mind building scenarios that weren’t true.</p>
<p>It was several hours before Enjolras returned, sopping wet and exhausted from his final day of classes for the semester.</p>
<p>“Grantaire?” Enjolras asked softly as he stepped into the bedroom, ringing out his hair over the washstand. </p>
<p>Grantaire softly groaned, rolling as far as he could manage before biting back a sob as he saw Enjolras, sopping wet and drained but <em>alive</em>. “Enjolras…”</p>
<p>Enjolras’ brow creased and he looked to Grantaire, properly taking him in. “What happened? Do your bandages need changing?” He shed his coat and vest before sitting down on the bed beside Grantaire, pushing up his shirt to see the bandage still wrapped tightly around his abdomen. “Did I tie it too tightly? Combeferre has a far more deft hand than I do.”</p>
<p>“No, I just… I’m glad you’re back,” Grantaire managed, trying to keep his voice from shaking.</p>
<p>Enjolras slowly nodded, letting Grantaire’s shirt fall back down before gently combing back a few loose strands of his hair. “Are you sure you’re alright? A chair in the kitchen is knocked over and you seem… off.”</p>
<p>“Just… I had a bad dream, that’s all,” Grantaire whispered, weakly smiling.</p>
<p>Enjolras squinted for a moment longer before getting back to his feet and setting his wet clothes out to dry. He sensed that more had happened than Grantaire was letting on, but he was no Courfeyrac or Jehan, who seemed to interpret whole scenarios from a single pained look. And even if he did have that ability, he sure wouldn’t know how to handle whatever it was Grantaire was hiding.</p>
<p>The best course of action then, at least in his mind, was to change the subject entirely.</p>
<p>“Are you sure you’ll be alright here on your own for a week?” Enjolras asked.</p>
<p>Grantaire simply shrugged. “I’m not sure I get much of a choice. But Ferre and Courf said they’d drop by everyday.”</p>
<p>“Good,” Enjolras nodded in satisfaction before picking up a stack of papers and walking out towards the kitchen.</p>
<p>One of the papers fluttered away from the stack before Enjolras could notice, and Grantaire got to his feet to pick it up. One of the many wonderful things about staying with Enjolras was getting to see little snippets of his beautiful handwriting almost everywhere. While Grantaire knew that Enjolras had little appreciation for art, there was no denying that whatever tutor had taught him to write had created a new art form all its own.</p>
<p>But the handwriting on this page was written with a trembling pen, the width of the ink strokes varying widely and the lines not nearly as clean as Grantaire was used to. He peered out the bedroom door, watching Enjolras sift through the stack of papers and sort them out for a moment, before he looked back down at the parchment he held in his hands.</p>
<p>As he read, he felt the affection slowly drain out of him, replaced by a boiling fury.</p>
<p>“Enjolras, what is this?” Grantaire asked, his voice stronger than it had been since he’d been shot.</p>
<p>Enjolras didn’t even look back, hardly noticing the change. “What is what?” he asked, voice  bored.</p>
<p>Grantaire gripped the incomplete speech tighter, starting to read. <em>“This was a man who was ready to lay down his life not for himself or for his friends, but for the good of his country. And when the crown could not kill him, he rose like a phoenix from the ashes to rally the peo—”</em></p>
<p>Enjolras blanched, standing suddenly and going into the bedroom. “Where did you find that?” he demanded.</p>
<p>“Why did you write it?” Grantaire retorted. “None of this is true or real!”</p>
<p>Enjolras snatched the paper away, crumpling it up. “Why would you say that? You jumped in front of a bullet for me, how is it not true?”</p>
<p>“I’m not—I’m not some martyr for your cause, Enjolras!” Grantaire cried. “I jumped in front of the goddamned bullet because you’re my friend. Because you are <em>more</em> than my friend. Not to be some—some <em>pawn</em> in your next big speech!”</p>
<p>Enjolras crossed his arms. “If you loved me, you’d do more than drink and scoff at my words. These words mean something, Grantaire. They’re going to help us build a better tomorrow for the people of France!”</p>
<p>“You think you’re so much better than the Louis that sits on the throne, but you’re just as despicable as your namesakes! You don’t care about the people in front of you, you only care about your image and using them to create a world where you can be happy with the person that you are!” Grantaire shouted, hand going to his side to attempt to assuage the pain that was quickly growing.</p>
<p>Enjolras pointed a trembling finger at him, face purpling with rage. “Don’t you <em>dare</em> accuse me of using people…”</p>
<p>“Then what is that speech, if not using me?” Grantaire returned, his chest heaving as he fought to breathe through the haze he felt. “Why is it that you can’t even accept that someone might like you beyond just your—your mind and your ideals? Why can’t I do something for you and <em>only</em> you?”</p>
<p>“Because it’s <em>you</em>, Grantaire! You—you’re self-serving and drunk and utterly useless!” Enjolras roared.</p>
<p>Grantaire swayed, his face having gone very, very pale.</p>
<p>A moment later he collapsed back on the bed, and Enjolras wasn’t sure whether he felt more terrified or relieved.</p>
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